O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. “Where are they?” She looked around. Yet she held her tongue. ‘Now then, my lad, you’re under arrest you are.
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