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Moses was whistling a dismal discordant air in the backyard when the voice of his mother smote his ears. Moses’ teeth chattered. It was not cold, but wash-day meant to the unhappy boy a dismal round of duties. “You’re George Rideout Smith’s kid, ain’t you?”.
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Conrad
Mrs. Wopp leaning towards a lady on her right inquired, “Do you know Mis’ Stephens, why Joe Avery is not dancin’ this evenin’. Ever sence we come into this here barn he has never moved from his seat.” “She’ll be orful mad,” prophecied Moses. “Well, he ain’t dead; he’s alive and bully, with a wad that bulges. I’m going to take you to him.” “Let’s all go to the parlor, Mar, and hev some music. It isn’t every evenin’ we hev company,” said Mr. Wopp..
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