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"By Dido, no doubt." "Oh, hang Dido!" cried Maurice, vigorously. "I wish she would mind her own business." "By whom?".
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"Precisely," assented Jen, eagerly. "Therefore your mother--" "Bill is too young to understand when he is—is being bereaved, Molly," he said, and still he didn't look at me. "I have been appointed a delegate to attend the Centennial Congress in Paris the middle of next month—and somehow I—feel a bit run down lately and I thought I would take the little chap and—have—have a Wanderjahr. You won't need him now, Mrs. Molly, and I couldn't go without him, could I?" The sadness in his voice would have killed me if I hadn't let it madden me instead. "Why, it's all ready," cried Patricia wondering at her changed manner. "We put the sliced lemon on the very last thing." "No, Major Jen, I can't, and I shan't," retorted Etwald, tartly. "If you are wise you will arrange to let me come here to-morrow at eleven, and meet Mrs. Dallas and her daughter.".
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