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"Enough," said the widow, gratefully. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. “Never was such an age of transition. As it was, my oldest and trustiest setter, Abraham Mendez, received a blow on the head from one of the lads that will deprive me of his services for a week to come,—if, indeed it does not disable him altogether. ‘He prayeth best who loveth best—all things both great and small. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. He really deserves a better fate, does he not? He is so beautifully persistent. It's my way when I'm ruffled. Since Jack has left us, what does it matter whether he's pleased or not?" At this moment, a whistle was heard. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell.
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