Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. I promise not to do it again. ’ ‘A French ghost?’ ‘Well, it ain’t a rat this time, Major, I can promise you that,’ Pottiswick had rejoined, his tone affronted. "It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed.
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