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“S’Gordon won’t care,” grunted Moses. “She never had to wear Par’s old pants, an’ she won’t un’erstan’ how a feller feels.” “Ain’t she her own aunt?” hazarded Mr. Wopp, abstractedly thrusting his hammer into his boot top and scratching his bald head with a pair of pincers. “The fleetin’ of youth is most sartin,” answered his wife, coining this epigram on the shortness of life’s spring-time, and sighing as she spoke. The good lady herself was looking through a stereoscope at some views and finding one of Niagara Falls she endeavored to cheer her despondent husband..
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A dull yellow glow from the kerosene lamp, placed by Moses on the bureau, lighted up the figure of Betty reclining on snowy pillows. On one side of her was seated Howard, his arm about the drowsy child. On the side of the bed, squarely seated on one of Mrs. Wopp’s texts worked into the patchwork quilt, was Nell, watching the little pallid face and trying to avoid the eyes of her silent lover. Which last order was the signal for a giddy frolic. Finally, “Everybody promenade, you know where,” and the dancers joined the spectators on the benches. “She’ll be orful mad,” prophecied Moses. “Oh, the kids’—boys’ dogs are mostly old or else too fat to run, like Bouncer. I guess the rabbit can get away,—too soon, perhaps. We’ll have you for Fair Ellen.”.
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