He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath. "Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—hem!" "Say no more on the subject, Sir," observed the stranger, gravely; "but let us turn to a more agreeable one—her daughter. ” “It’s all the same,” said Miss Miniver.
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