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What sort of stuff do you think I'm made of? Would I do this for every man? Don't I deserve even gratitude in return? 'You're a deyvlish good fellow, said the poor young lord, taking his friend's arm. 'Upon my life you're a deyvlish good fellow, Hawk. 'And I have done right, have I? demanded Sir Mulberry. 'Quite ri-ght. 'And like a poor, silly, good-natured, friendly dog as I am, eh?
Zoséphine had set her face to oppose his words only with unyielding silence, but the answer escaped her: "Yass, 'tis so. 'Tis ri-ght!" "No, Josephine. I know you feel as if it were; but you don't think so. No, you don't; I know you better in this matter than you know yourself, and you don't think it's right.
On the door step of the Gwynnes' house, arrested on the threshold by the robin's song, stood the Gwynne boy of ten years, his eager face uplifted, himself poised like a bird for flight. "Law-r-ence," clear as a bird call came the voice from within. "Mo-th-er," rang the boy's voice in reply, high, joyous and shrill. "Ear-ly! Remember!" "Ri-ght a-way af-ter school.
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