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On the upper terrace close to the piazza-post, grew a great rose-bush, and on it, late in the season though it was, one small red, perfect rose. Rebecca looked at it, and the other woman extended her hand with a quick gesture. "Don't you pick that rose!" she brusquely cried. Rebecca drew herself up with stiff dignity. "I ain't in the habit of picking other folks' roses without leave," said she.
"It's these pine woods, back o' here. Every breath on 'em does ye good. It's the balsam in it. D' you ever try," he asked, stretching his hand as far up the piazza-post as he could, and swinging into a conversational posture, "d' you ever try whiskey good odd Bourbon whiskey with white-pine chips in it?" Mrs. Maynard looked up with interest, but, shaking her head, coughed for no.
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