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Yorke said he was of a very old and distinguished family. She gave him a pedigree that would have done honor to a Derby-winner. "I am so glad," declared Mrs. Nailor. "I knew he must be, of course. I am sure you would never encourage such an intimacy unless he were?" She smiled herself off, leaving Mrs. Yorke fuming. "That woman is always sticking pins into people," she said to herself.
What looked like a miracle was no more than the same beautifully simple process which Nature enacts every day, when she changes an awkward and dirt-colored cygnet into a glorious swan or a leggily gawky colt into a superb Derby-winner. But Bruce's metamorphosis seemed none the less wonderful in the eyes of the two people who had learned to love him. Somewhere in the hideous wreck of Dr.
"He'd lost his wind before he got here." "He ain't lost his nerve," said a negro porter, craning his neck in lively interest. "He's lettin' hisself go lak a Derby-winner on de home stretch!" "Has he give up?" asked the gate-keeper, turning aside to stamp a ticket. "Not him. He's bound to ketch dat train ef it busts a hamstring. He's done got holt de rear platform! He's pullin' hisself up! There!
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