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Mannel Rodd’s round face was very solemn as in two chubby fists he held out a small box containing a number of short knobby specimens. He sat by the table in his dressing-room with angry storm-swept countenance. He had been capturing loud plaudits with his rag-time, until intoxicated with success, he swept into a tornado of music by Moskowski. The applause died away; two ladies in the front row began chatting. The enraged artist jumped from the piano-stool, and shouting “Pigs!” raced from the platform. Several ladies of the district were already busy “scttin’ up” the quilt when Mrs. Wopp and her satellites entered the Mifsud parlor..

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By this time Mr. Wopp was bearing a length of pipe into the yard. The parlor looked like a morgue with its inanimate objects lying bidden under sheets and cloths of varying degrees of past usefulness. Through a hole of one sheet could be seen the listless towzled head of Hannah, her faded wax countenance betraying the need of a tonic. Mrs. Wopp’s eyes fell on the stained shawl. “Bully fer you, ’s Gordon,” shouted the excited Moses leaping furiously. “Keep her goin’. Ole Dan Tucker jist fits that toon.” Mr. Patton, who “placed” the refugees, was glad of Billy’s request, for the child’s struggle for self-control had touched him; and he knew no one would be a kinder mother to her than Mrs. Bennett..