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“Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. "I know the house well; by the same token that it's a flash crib. By a sort of instinct. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father. ” “There’s a sort of instinct of rebellion,” said Capes. ” She paused.
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