Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions. And Mother trusted him. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. “Twenty-two. ‘Now then, Gerald, out with it. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now.
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