’ ‘But I can’t leave you, miss. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack.
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