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“Don’t Job look jist like Mariar Mifsud goin’ to meetin’,” gurgled Betty. Mrs. Wopp was an incurable optimist, although the citadel of her optimism was being assailed. Turning her wrathful gaze from Moses, her eye lighted on the soiled pink hat and antimacassar still worn by Job. She burst into a hearty laugh and turned to Betty. “That big sand pile the kids made last week for a fort can be the Sierras, and we’ll tunnel, and have a loop, and—”.
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Conrad
“Me neither,” George endorsed. “Ef you wish it, Ebenezer,” responded his spouse though still somewhat absorbed in the frustrated hopes of her relative, “jist wait till I drawr up the blinds.” “Come here Betty, till I clean yer face. Where is that boy Moses? I know he had a hand in this. Drat him anyhow,” said the incensed Mrs. Wopp. “There isn’t any Maskey’s any more,” May Nell mourned; “just ashes and old irons where used to be such oceans of goodies in such beautiful boxes and dishes.”.
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