‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat. Not MY affair. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.
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