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Not far from the large old-fashioned hearth[Pg 65] beside a little table on which stood a work-basket, sat in a tall-backed arm-chair fit for a queen to be crowned in, a figure that must have carried the memory of a middle-aged or old man of that time well back into the past century. She was Miss Acton, Lucy's Aunt Caroline, sister of Captain Acton, a lady of about seventy years of age, who trembled with benevolence and imaginary alarms, who was always doing somebody good, and was now at work upon some baby clothing for an infant that had been born a week or two before. "I've heard," said Mr. Johnston. "His was a brave and commendable act." Maurice drew her outside and closed the door. "Come over behind the woodpile, Ma, an' I'll tell you," he answered cautiously..
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"Walk in, Captain Weaver. Pray, take that chair," said Captain Acton. "I can ask you no questions until I make you acquainted with what has happened." "So things went along fer a few years. Then come a letter from England to Roger Stanhope. Frank read it to me. Seems they wanted Stanhope back home, if he was alive; if not they wanted his son to come. Frank didn't even answer that letter. He says to me, 'Mr. Keeler, this spot's good enough fer me.' An' by gosh! he stayed. "Ugh!" Anson shuddered and pulled the bed clothes up about his ears. "How did it get it, Bill! Does anybody know?" "Now, then," declared Scroggie, tossing his hat on the sward and drying his moist palms on his trouser-legs, "I'm goin' to black your eyes and pummel the nose off your face.".
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