. . O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. CHAPTER II.
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