"I'm afraid, Jack, you'll come to the gallows," observed the smith; "buth if you do, I'll go to Tyburn to see you. ” She became aware of her aunt, through the panes of the greenhouse, advancing with an air of serene unconsciousness from among the raspberry canes. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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