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Now, old Sir George Rodney, grandfather of the present baronet, had two sons, Geoffrey and George. Now, Geoffrey he loved, but George he hated. And so great by years did this hatred grow that after a bit he sought how he should leave the property away from his eldest-born, who was George, and leave it to Geoffrey, the younger,—which was hardly fair; for "what," says Aristotle, "is justice?—to give every man his own." And surely George, being the elder, had first claim. The entail having been broken during the last generation, he found this easy to accomplish; and so after many days he made a will, by which the younger son inherited all, to the exclusion of the elder. "Very good, miss; I'm going," says the woman, and with a last touch to the butter she covers it over with a clean wet cloth and moves to the yard door. The two chickens on the threshold, who have retreated and advanced a thousand times, now retire finally with an angry "cluck-cluck," and once more silence reigns. "Yet I feel sure—I know," she says, tremulously, "you are hiding something from me. Why do you not look at me when you answer my questions?".
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Perhaps, could she only know how charmingly becoming this style of headdress is to her flower-like face, she would not have blushed at all. "But, Geoffrey, why should I be cold to your mother? Sure you wouldn't have me be uncivil to her, of all people?" To-day—that "liberal worldling," that "gay philosopher"—is here; and last night belongs to us only in so far as it deserves a place in our memory or has forced itself there in spite of our hatred and repugnance. When they had taken the skins from these animals, they set up poles and put the hides over them, and so made a shelter to sleep under..
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