The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. This was a much more serious task than he anticipated. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth. Listen to me, Winifred. I want you to hold me and have me SO. The Red Room.
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