For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. "I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. .
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