“Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. " "Oh, Jack!" cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him with kisses. But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede.
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