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Having disposed of the song, dear to her mother’s heart, in spite of the protestations of Moses, Betty went to the kitchen and in a few moments returned with a steaming pot of tea. “Why not, I’d like to know? Isn’t this my shack? And shall I let a kid burn up?” “Now, Mosey, Mar’d be as mad as a wet hen ef she heard you. I want two bits to give to the heathens in Arfrica an’ Mar don’t pay me fer doin’ chores like she pays you. Wisht I was a boy.”.
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Yet before one could think, almost before the paper had time to burn, Jimmy sprang to her, seized her in his arms, tearing at the shrivelling paper, and jumped far out over the flaming boat into a deep pool. Ricketty jig and away we go.” ‘The lighter pine trees overhead,’ 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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