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Tears were falling from Bernardine's eyes and sobs were trembling on the tender lips, she could restrain her feelings no longer, and, catching up the thin, shriveled-up figure of the dear little old spinster in her arms, she strained her to her heart and wept. "Ah, my dear girl. You are the good angel who took me in and cared for me, believing me to be a pauper.
This particular jockey was a man of forty, and with his long, thin, deeply furrowed, hard, dead countenance, he looked like an old shriveled-up child. His body was knotty and so reduced in size that his blue jacket with its white sleeves looked as if it had been thrown over a lay figure. "No," she resumed as she walked away, "he would never make me very happy, you know."
At that, Celestina gave a glad cry and flew to him, throwing her arms around his neck. "Oh, I will go anywhere you want!" she exclaimed. "Get on your bonnet then before you change your mind, my dear!" "And aunt?" asked Celestina, lingering doubtfully on the threshold. "Your aunt, as you call that shriveled-up shrew, consented at once," answered Straws.
My Irish blood got the better of me, and before I knew it the shriveled-up little monkey was knocked over and kicking about the floor." Whistler vigorously controverted this version as a "barefaced falsehood." He added: "I am sure he never touched me. I don't know why, for he is a much bigger man than I. My idea is that he was thoroughly cowed by the moral force of my attack.
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