She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide.
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