" "Poh! poh!" rejoined Ireton; "it was mere idle boasting. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. " "Heaven help her!" sighed Jack. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. “Amazing. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same.
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