You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. “You poor thing. " "What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly. Are these folks your current foster parents?” “Yes. ’ ‘Well, don’t bite my head off,’ protested Mrs Sindlesham, clearly amused. Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone.
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