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But not that night nor for days after did Billy look at his books. The second morning the fever was still present, and he told his mother he was “all over red goose flesh.” “Let me go, please!” he pleaded. “There’s a little girl, our refugee, over there, fainted, I think, perhaps—dead.” “There’s a better way,” Billy called, when the deputy leading started to climb back as he had come. “Follow the creek; there’s a trail.”.
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kez_ h (Kez_h)
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🌺 Mindfulness Practices
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Conrad
“Yes, I could eat a graven image.” She put back his tumbled hair, looked long into his eyes, realizing with a shock that she was looking up. Her little boy was gone. Her wardrobe was a heavy drain on Edith’s purse, yet the young teacher delighted almost as a mother in the dainty garments that won her to extravagance. In the hours of joy that followed, joy known only to boys and farms in conjunction, Billy,—and it was unusual for him,—more than once recalled his mother’s words; heeded them to the extent of bidding Harold a reluctant good-bye when the sun was still blazing high above the horizon. But when, on his way home, he came to the branching of the road his good resolution weakened. He looked back. The sun was surely more than an hour high. He would have time to go up the hill road to the “Ha’nt.” And, beside that, he wished to look at the river where its divided flow encircled a tiny, shrub-grown island..
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