You guys don’t fool around, that was one big Thanksgiving dinner. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. His face clouded with anger. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady.
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