O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. “They are coming past our table. ‘Go on, Gerald. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. Presently he reached out and laid his hand upon Spurlock's motionless shoulders. I tried it myself, Sir. .
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