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Grégoire’s hair was soft, not so dark as her own, and possessed an inclination to curl about her slender fingers. “Grégoire,” she said, “you told me once that the Santien boys were a hard lot; what did you mean by that?” “Oh no,” he answered, laughing good-humoredly up into her eyes, “you did’n year me right. W’at I said was that we had a hard name in the country.
“You see w’en father died, fo’ year ago, mother she went back to France, t’her folks there; she never could stan’ this country an’ lef’ us boys to manage the place. Hec, he took charge the firs’ year an’ run it in debt. Placide an’ me did’n’ have no betta luck the naxt year. Then the creditors come up from New Orleans an’ took holt. That’s the time I packed my duds an’ lef’.” “And you came here?”
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