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“Billy, you’re a wise guy. This beats Maskey’s,” Harold declared. Mrs. Wopp had a request from Mrs. Williams. She, the requestor, was ill with a touch of “pewmonia,” as Mrs. Wopp afterward related, and would Mrs. Wopp the requestee oblige by taking her Sunday-school class for the following Sunday afternoon. He obeyed, talking whimsically to his pets as he went..
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“Can he mean ‘prodigy,’ do you think, May Nell?” Edith’s eyes were mischievous. “Not a bit!” His words were strangely impatient. “I’ve got to find her!” He started past them. At this mendacious statement Mrs. Wopp turned on her offspring a withering glance. “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.”.
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