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"Yes, of course," she says, dejectedly. A cloud seems to have fallen upon her happy hour. "When did you hear that—that last singer?" she asks, in a subdued voice. THE BLACKFEET CREATION "Spring comes slowly up this way".
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"Yes, I know it now!" returns she, softly, yet with the gentle dignity that always belongs to her. Her lips quiver, but she draws herself up to her fullest height, and, throwing up her head, walks with a gait that is almost stately into the presence of the duchess. "It won't be her fault; but of course her people will object, which amounts to the same thing. She can't go against her people, you know." The old woman outside called to them, "Friends, is it smoking in there now?" "Give it to me!" cries she, impulsively, her voice, trembling. "It is the missing will. You found it last night. It belongs to Nicholas. You must—nay," softly, beseechingly, "you will give it to me.".
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