"I can," replied Trenchard. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. " "A miniature! Of whom?" "That I can't say," replied Jack, mysteriously. The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. I can't help looking at you frequently. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. .
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