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The hanging basket, now an unhung and travelling basket, heavy, iron-ribbed, anciently mossy, oozy of slime, fell with neat exactitude upon the bald, bare cranium of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith, head gardener, and dour, irascible child and woman hater. "Bull's-eye!" commented Dam always terse when not composing fairy-tales. "Crikey!" shrieked Lucille.
Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith did what he rarely did swore violently. "Do you think at your age it is right?" quoted the wicked boy ... the exceedingly bad and reprehensible boy. The maddened gardener turned and strode to the house with all his imperfections on his head and face and neck.
"That's done it," and fled straightway to her room and violent earnest prayer, not for forgiveness but for salvation, from consequences. The face of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith was not pleasant to see as he pranced forth from the orchid-house, brandishing an implement of his trade.
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