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"Och! Billy O'Shune can't ye whistle t' me, "What sort of a fellow was this who stopped Miss Acton?" enquired the Admiral. "Was he a pauper? Broken clothes, whining voice, the suppliant's demeanour—that sort of thing?" The Admiral's face wore an expression that was almost imbecile with bewilderment..
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Conrad
Keeler roused himself from his abstraction and resumed: "Right next to the Stanhope farm there stood about a thousand acres of the purtiest hardwoods you ever clap't an eye on, sir. An ol' hermit of a drunken Scotchman, Scroggie by name, owned that land. He lived in a dirty little cabin an' was so mean even the mice was scared to eat the food he scrimped himself on. He had money too, lots an' lots of gold money. I've seen it myself. He kept it hid somewhere. The door opened and her husband entered. He cast a quick, apprehensive glance at his wife, and the low whistle died on his lips as he passed over to the long roller towel hanging above the wash-bench and proceeded to dry his hands. "Well, heed it, and heed it close. I'll overlook the cuttin' of my new bench, but, by ding! I'd ruther you'd carve me than carve this store." He paused abruptly and bent on Billy a quizzical look. "Whose 'nitials are them under yourn?" he asked. The man with the brown wig peered with his head on one side at Mr Lawrence, as though Mr Short's toast conveyed a piece of news to him..
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