‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. And you have to thank her presence, hot-headed boy, that I do not chastise your insolence as it deserves.
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