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"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

"Deserters, I don't doubt!" was my comment to the ladies. Tongue revenge is poor, but it is something.

"What do you see?" His frown scared me to my finger-tips.

I dilated. "Who told--did Ned Ferry tell you that story?"

With the rein dangling under the bits he went over the fence like a deer.

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