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"Well, she did. I don't remember about that, you know. I was quite a little chap, and hustled out of sight if I said 'boo.' But of course she's got over all that, and is as jolly as a sand-boy now," says Geoffrey, gayly. (If only Lady Rodney could have heard him comparing her to a "sand-boy"!) "Is it worth so much thought?" he says, bitterly. "It surely will not injure you fatally to lay your hand in mine for one instant." Those who wish to know something about how the people lived who told these stories will find their ways of life described in the last chapter of this book..
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"Yes, they are pretty, but insignificant," says the Æsthete, contemptuously. "Paltry children of the earth, not to be compared with the lenten or the tiger lily, or the fiercer beauty of the sunflower, or the hues of the unsurpassable thistle!" "It would be rude to deny that," he says, with a slight shrug. "I am sure you are always in the right." Presently her cry is answered. A thick cloud of pigeons—brown and white and bronze and gray—come wheeling into sight from behind the old house, and tumble down upon her in a reckless fashion. They perch upon her head, her shoulders, her white soft arms, even her hands, and one, more adventurous than the rest, has even tried to find a slippery resting-place upon her bosom. "I wish to find the Sun's home," said Scarface. "I wish to speak with him.".
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