‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. Her fingers rested upon his. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. We haven’t. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance.
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