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"Why, because they're the very nicest things in the world, of course," she replied spiritedly. "I love to get new ones and see how they work. It's such fun. Like archery practice, when you hit the bull's eye. Only words are somehow different, too. They sort of taste when you say them—sometimes sweet and sometimes tingly and queer, like the Amorites and Hittites," and she giggled at the memory.,

"I am afraid so, indeed, major, therefore I must have assistance. There is nothing like being provided in time with counsel for the defense; therefore, I must ask Mr. David Sarby to defend me from these absurd charges.",

"And do you know," she went on, "that the model is a Russian refugee, and he tried to kill himself because he was so homesick. He's just out of the hospital, and he has a great red scar across his breast. Isn't it exciting to be among such different sort of people? We've always been so sort of tabbified.",

"None in the world. Yet she certainly took his life."

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"What!" cried Jen, interrupting sharply. "Did Dr. Etwald know about it also?",

Sleep is one of the most delightful and undervalued amusements known to the human race. I have never had enough yet, and every second of time that I'm not busy with something interesting, I curl up on the bed and go dream-hunting—only I sleep too hard to do much catching. But this torture book found that out about me, and stopped it the very first thing on page three. The command is to sleep as little as possible to keep the nerves in a good condition—"eight hours at the most, and seven would be better." What earthly good would a seven-hour nap do me? I want ten hours to sleep and twelve if I get a good tired start. To see me stagger out of my perfectly nice bed at six o'clock every morning now would wring the sternest heart with compassion and admiration at my faithfulness—to whom?,

"Under the bed! Are you sure?" said Jen, greatly startled by this information.,

The room was very dark at first, and little whispers ran all about in the gloom. There was a rustling and shuffling and a sound of hurried, muffled steps. Patricia, from her hiding place behind the door screen, could make out nothing but the dim oblong of the transom above her head and the long pale mass of the skylight.