I'm almost sorry I've sworn to hang you. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. ‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. "To me?" gasped Winifred. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. Here, it might be anything at all. Then the storm broke.
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