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She took the child in her comforting arms. “Don’t cry, little one! We shall find her, never fear.” He tidied himself, bade his mother good-bye, and followed the girls to rehearsal. With a patient hand removin’.

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“Afore I begin weedin’,” she announced, “I b’lieve I’ll make two bouquets, one orl yaller an’ one orl white, an’ some sparrer-grass in both.” “Never mind Mosey, Next Monday I’m goin’ to ask Mar to let me stay home and turn the nasty mouldy machine.” Was there to be another murder? Ought he to call? If he did wouldn’t they turn on him—kill him? No matter. Some one might be on the road and hear. And he could run pretty fast. Anyway he must risk it. A haughty toss of the head was all the reply vouchsafed to this brotherly jibe..