"Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. With an open hand, he slapped her face. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation.
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