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The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. We'll get together this afternoon; and you can pretend that I am your father.

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