Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. Cathy sighed. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. She listened, listened intently for several minutes. “I should love to come. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. "I never wear false whiskers," went on O'Higgins.
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