" She broke into a breathless affirmative groan: "They're the master's!" I caught it up. Meanwhile the glare of the face was again at the window, the scoundrel fixed as if to watch and wait. The next thing she did, however, was to stoop straight down and pluck--quite as if it were all she was there for--a big, ugly spray of withered fern. If the lamp smokes or smells I shall try to trim it.
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