I don’t think I shall ever care for this bonnet again. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. "You speak English better than I do," said O'Higgins, as the coolies jogged across the bridge toward the gate.
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