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It was as if she was trying by sheer physical effort to give them back what she had taken away from them. Sometimes one thought one heard little Hurry crying very softly and bitterly, and it would turn out to be Mrs. Fulton, locked in her bedroom. Pressure of business, success, kept Mr. Fulton going. Sometimes the two tried to talk things over. But it was an irritating, mosquitoey house.
Then we crossed the peninsular, traveling under hammock-woods and century-old wild-orange trees, whose "twilight dim hallowed the noonday," regaled with unlimited fish and game to the far-famed Indian River, delightful recreation-spots for a few weeks in winter, but too hot, damp, and mosquitoey for colonies.
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