"Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. "Do you think I would take a harlot to my bed, if it didn't suit my purposes to do so?" "He says right," replied Mrs. Papa doesn't even care, but he just goes along with whatever my Mom says. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth.
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