"Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “I’m not in the mood right this instant. He would advise you how to get rid of the fellow. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me.
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