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"Yes, long ago," says Geoffrey, with animation. "Quite an hour ago." "Well, really, you know, yes. I think there is something special about her," he says, feeling himself in duty bound to say something. "To everything! How could you think of bringing a daughter-in-law of—of—her description to your mother?".
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"You will get murdered," says his mother, quite as indolently, half opening her eyes, which are gray as Geoffrey's own. "They always kill people, with things they call pikes, or burn them out of house and home, over there, without either rhyme or reason." For feare she should of lightnesse be detected." About a week after her arrival—she having expressed her admiration of ferns the night before—he draws her hand through his arm and takes her to his own special sanctum,—off which a fernery has been thrown, he being an enthusiastic grower of that lovely weed. Just then Dorothy says,—.
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