In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. ’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic. "But, I own, I think it is like. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. You cannot—shall not retreat. "Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—hem!" "Say no more on the subject, Sir," observed the stranger, gravely; "but let us turn to a more agreeable one—her daughter.
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