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“Billy, I don’t like the look of your eyes; you’re reading too much at night,” his mother said one evening when he was helping with the dishes. “You must go to bed earlier.” The dutiful husband drew from his pocket a long slip of paper and a small stubby pencil. Having a poor memory, he had formed the habit of making a note of everything his wife suggested, so that he could fulfill her wishes in future. The notes were plentiful, but they failed in some unaccountable way to prod his memory. “Yes, I can see that the wind, the shaking tower, the creaking mill, would bring such dreams,” his mother said. “Hear the wind howl now!”.
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kez_ h (Kez_h)
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Take your content to the next level with Quillbot AI Detector! Enhance your writing, detect AI influence, and craft engaging and original content effortlessly.I tried logging in using my phone number and I
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Conrad
They were a happy lot. Each held some high-sounding position, the name coined in Billy’s busy brain. His box of abused tools came forth; the much mended wheelbarrow, picks, shovels wobbly from use as well as abuse, improvised things that only an imagination as large as Billy’s could have named tools,—something for each one there. “Now, Mose, fer the elbow. Stiddy! Don’t shove! Don’t pull! Hole her stiddy!” May Nell looked at him with wide eyes. She saw that he was not a vineyard workman, his clothes were too fine. She did not see them in detail, the large checked trousers, the shiny gloves, and the big diamond, but she felt instinctively that one who could dress so was different from the men she knew. And the look in his face made her cold. A chill as from an ice field swept over Billy. His heart seemed to fall down, down, as far as his shoes. He noticed that things looked darker, and his head felt light and queer. Another fear assailed him; would he, too, collapse, leave the little girls alone with the terror of two senseless boys?.
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