. . She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. Give him his medicine every half hour. She refrained. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain.
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