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“Not many of us would, Mrs. Wopp,” remarked Mrs. Bliggins, a small fair woman with a round placid countenance. “What with cookin’, an’ washin’, an’ cleanin’, an’ buttermakin’, an’ hundreds of other things, there’s not much time for fancy work.” “Billy! My—boy!” Mrs. Bennett bent over him; and he felt a tear where her cheek touched his. “Fer the love o’ Mike, kid, how did you git here?” said Moses, rousing the small sleeper. “Gosh, but yer face needs warshin’.”.
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“But the girls and small fry can’t come in on that. Besides, that little city kid’ll be lonesome if I leave her.” It had stopped raining, but was still cloudy. This was the hour when Billy usually wheeled long miles by himself, dreaming dreams no one but a boy knows how to dream. Nothing short of a downpour ever hindered him; thus mother and sister knew it was genuine self-sacrifice that kept him beside the little girl through the long afternoon. Mrs. Bennett hugged her closer and patted her cheek softly, but let the passion of tears spend itself a little before trying the comfort of words. Then she questioned of the child’s parents, her past life, and the events just preceding the catastrophe in San Francisco, that she herself might better understand how to shield and make happy the little waif that a terrible, heaving earth had cast into her home, her arms. This was a poser for Mrs. Wopp, who was obliged to admit that her knowledge of biblical genealogy did not embrace the immediate relatives of Jonah..
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