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Here Mrs. Wopp related for the hundredth time the account of the ketchup disaster. Awakened to the fact of her son’s existence and perhaps as an antidote to her unusual display of sentiment, Mrs. Wopp spoke rather sharply. “Moses, time you an’ Betty was in bed. You won’t want to git up in the mornin’ an’ milk the cows.” Later left alone in the lower part of the house she stood arms akimbo in the middle of the kitchen gazing at the door through which Nell Gordon had just departed. Shaking her head she said mysteriously, “I kalkerlate as how things is a-settin’ in that way.” “O, Dadsie,” was the reply, “this is recital afternoon, you know.”.
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Her disappointment over Moses’ parsimony led her now to see the urgent necessity of ideas, vital ideas, in fact, ideas that could cause silver to flow to her empty coffers, or in other words her missionary box. “But couldn’t another pair have been born in Siam?” May Nell questioned; and as no one felt sufficiently informed to deny it, Harry and Clarence continued their strained relations. “Them critters has swore more than I ever heerd sence the ketchup bottle fomented an’ bust an’ splashed orl over Par’s shirt an’ trickled down his pants.” “La now! An’ why do you say that, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Wopp. “Set up straight, Moses, yer back looks like you was packin’ a sack of pertaters.”.
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