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The Red Rover was a river craft, a cutter, with the one big jib of our river craft instead of jib and foresail, belonging to the late Mr. Sam Nightingale, of Lacon's Brewery. She was originally about twelve tons, but by improvements and additions, when Mr. Nightingale died in the eighties, was eighteen tons.
"But we've accepted the comic in the institution of marriage, we Americans. It's too late for us to attempt to take it without its possibilities of opera bouffe." "But aren't there laws?" Edith asked. Again Lacon's lips glimmered with the ghost of a smile. "Yes; but they're very complacent laws.
"What makes you think that Chip and I I mean," she corrected, with some confusion, "Mr. Walker and I want to do it at all?" "Isn't that rather evident?" "I didn't know it was." Chip glanced at them over his shoulder. It seemed to him that Lacon's look was one of pity.
They reduce marriage to the legal permission for two persons to live together as man and wife as long as mutually agreeable; but the license is easily rescinded and renewed." "But surely marriage is more than that," she protested. Lacon's ghost of a smile persisted. "Haven't we proved that it isn't? for us, at any rate.
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