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Updated: July 2, 2025
"Guests first!" hissed Dorothy, in a fierce whisper, as Ruyven crowded past me, and he slunk back, mortified, while Dorothy, in a languid voice and with the air of a duchess, drawled, "Your arm, cousin," and slipped her hand into my arm, tossing her head with a heavy-lidded, insolent glance at poor Ruyven.
"Are these children not silly?" she said, with a little shrug. "We may be children, and we may be silly," said Ruyven, "but if we were you we'd wed our cousin Ormond." "All of you together?" inquired Dorothy. "You know what I mean," he snapped. "Why don't you?" demanded Harry, vaguely, twitching Dorothy by the apron. "Do what?" "Wed our cousin Ormond."
Another crash shook the ceiling of solid oak; very far away I heard a young girl's laughter, then a stifled chorus of voices from the floor above. "Das Miss Dorry an' de chilluns," observed the old man. "Who are the others?" "Waal, dey is Miss Celia, an' Mars' Harry, an' Mars' Ruyven, an' Mars' Sam'l, an' de babby, li'l Mars' Benny." "All mad?" "Yaas, suh."
And that day dated the silent enmity between Brant and Butler, which never healed. This I gathered amid all their chit-chat while we stood under the willows near the spring, watching Ruyven pace the distance from the post back across the greensward towards us. Then, making his heel-mark in the grass, he took a green willow wand and set it, all feathered, in the turf.
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