Jean, too, crossed the little bridge, climbed the fence, mounted her wheel, and rolled off down the dusty road.,
“Don’t sit there wool-gatherin’ anyways, Mose, or the moths’ll nest in yer head. Ef you carn’t sing in toon, you kin bring up a cup of tea fer Miss Gordon an’ Mr. Eliot, an’ don’t fergit Betty an’ yer Mar.”,
“I think the linin’ of Miss Gordon’s cloud needs polishin’ these days,” ventured Betty, shyly..
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