’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. I told you no good would come of it. He was bringing the sing-song girl to the hotel! The strange cortège presently vanished below the window-sill. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. .
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