" "You'd better take care of your mother's son instead," rejoined Blueskin. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. “Gracious!” she exclaimed to herself. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. "Like master like man," observed Jack as he rolled the inanimate body to the side of the road. He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack.
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