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"But how do you know it isn't David's?" persisted Judith, as she gathered up her letters. "We never asked David when his birthday came, did we?" "As if I'd publish it on the housetops!" she cried in infinite disdain. "It's plain you aren't much up in detective stories." "Better shut the windows there, Miss Pat," he said. "I'll close the doors and then we'll hustle. It's going to be a stunner when it comes.".
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"Mrs. Dallas. She had missed her daughter and had been seeking for her in a state of terror, surely natural under the circumstances. I found her pacing the veranda, wondering what had become of Isabella." "Voodoo!" she said, and that was all. But it was enough for Isabella. She shrieked and ran out of the room. Then Dido, still singing, appeared at the window, and looked at Mrs. Dallas with an expression of triumph. A real love-letter ought to be like a cream puff with a drop of dynamite in it. Alfred's was that kind. I felt warm and happy down to my toes as I read it, and I turned round so that old Lilac Bush couldn't peep over my shoulder at what he said. To-night he looked me in the face and told me how to marry, and I'm not sure yet that I won't do as he says. Of course I'm in love with Alfred, but if he wants me he had better get me away quick before the judge makes all his arrangements. A woman loves to be courted with poems and flowers and deference, but she's wonderfully apt to marry the man who says, "Don't argue, but put on your bonnet and come with me.".
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