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It was of no use; he must cry. With his head in his mother’s lap he cried hard. Mother stroked his head gently. “Uncle Isaac wished it so much himself, my boy. He was eager to go to God,” she whispered. Cease your ruin! spectres dire! As Bob shot out into the stream he asked the newcomer, “Want to paddle?”.
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Later he invited many, many children from the town as well as from his own school, and all the teachers. "Who is there?" Little Red Riding-Hood was frightened at first, on hearing the Wolf's gruff voice, but thinking that her grandmother had a cold, she answered,— “Hold on, Bob. I want to speak to you.” Which in vain sober mortals would know..
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