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"Don't you like him?"

My thanks were few and awkward, for there still hung to the missive a basting thread, and it was as warm as a nestling bird. I bent low--everybody was emotional in those days--kissed the fragrant thing, thrust it into my bosom, and blushed worse than Camille.

"Guess I'm the first Yankee y' ever caught, ain't I?" His smile was superior, but congratulatory.

"Front!" I once snapped out with a ring that made the trees reply and the ladies catch their breath. "If you steal one more look back here I'll put a ball into your leg."

"Hmm; Charlotte Oliver. Are you sure you have the name just right?"

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