Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. "Devil!" cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face, "how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat?" "NINE!" answered Jonathan sternly. A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth as she recalled Gerald’s ridiculous upbraiding of his own reflection in the mirror. And for Suzanne and the vicomte, I am nothing. This fruit was McClintock's particular pride.
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