Hang the wench! Roding was right. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Very intelligent, by the looks of the books she was carrying. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. It had been very peaceful in the little cave for countless years. Kind of knows it, too. ’ A peal of delighted laughter greeted this threat. " "Understand what?" "You or this girl.
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