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On the morning after Nell Gordon’s arrival, she admired the lovely array of fairy-like trumpets that seemed to smile a welcome from the glass bowl in the centre of the table. A tiny spider had been hidden in the heart of one of the blooms, and was weaving a net of filmy loveliness from flower to flower. The effulgence of Mrs. Wopp’s smile was somewhat obscured by “I told you so’s,” but the aroma of the steaming teapot soon restored its radiance. “Jiminy whiz! This is my very last week of boy; next week I’ll have to be a man,” he said gloomily..
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The unstinted praise of the children in the operetta, the aftermath of buzz about the “show” at school,—this excitement lasted for a day or so; but on this lowering Sunday tired nature put in a claim for her own; and relaxed nerves were irritably near the surface. “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.” “When I heerd Par swear I run inter the kitchen, an’ there he stood with suthin red orl down his face an’ neck. A ketchup bottle on the shelf above had bust over him an’ I thort it was blood. ‘Ebenezer Wopp,’ I says, ‘whose been tryin’ to arssarssinate yer?’ All he said was ‘By Heck,’ but a forty-horse power gun couldn’t of roared through the kitchen louder ’n them words.” “Billy! You’re freezing!” She sprang up and turned on the light..
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