Every morning during the summer a bunch of morning-glories, wet with dew, adorned the breakfast table. Blue and pink and white, they seemed the very spirit of morning freshness and sweetness.,
“I’ll mow in the morning. Let me stay and visit Pretty—Harold, I mean—till sundown; can’t I, mamma?” He patted her cheek with a vigor that made her wink. “You know you can’t refuse your darling boy,” he wheedled.,
Jean, too, crossed the little bridge, climbed the fence, mounted her wheel, and rolled off down the dusty road..
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