What I said about your brat was all stuff. B. " "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. “The fact of it is, and this absurd project of yours only brings it to a head, you have begun to get hold of some very queer ideas about what a young lady in your position may or may not venture to do.
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