O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. On beholding the intruders, his fears changed to exultation, and he uttered a roar of satisfaction as he glared at them, which could only be likened to the cry of some savage denizen of the plains. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. The chapel was crowded to excess. . ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it.
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