Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. '—'It's not to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it. “Why can’t we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns do? We restrict each other, we badger each other, friendship is poisoned and buried under it!. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse.
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