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Updated: June 20, 2025
Molly Tooney, who was sitting on a low stool, paring potatoes, looked up in amazement at the person who entered her kitchen. It was not an obsequious old woman she saw, but a sedate, dignified, elderly person, with her brows somewhat knitted. Throwing about her a glance, which was not one of admiration, La Fleur remarked, "I suppose you are the cook of the house."
Mike was in a state of exuberant delight at the idea of having that good Mrs. Flower in the place of Molly Tooney. He worked until nearly twelve o'clock at night to scour and brighten the kitchen and its contents for her reception. Into this region of bliss there descended, about the middle of the afternoon, a frowning apparition.
"It is good enough," she said, "but it is not a tart. If Dora Bannister had made them, they would have been real tarts." "It is very well I said nothing about the dog," thought Ralph; and then he said aloud, "It is not Dora Bannister that we have to consider; it is Molly Tooney.
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