“Mr. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. The comments on the makeover lessened but were replaced by long admiring glances by boys who had never before given her the time of day. “Will he die?” she asked.
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