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"Never," said Vesta. "Well, some folks out Sinepuxin said it was a sin and a shame sech extravagins; but Misc Somers she said Uncle Meshach was rich an' hadn't but one Rhudy. It ain't quite as big as Misc Somers's bonnet, but it's draw'd mour." Here Rhoda gave a repetition of what Vesta had twice before observed an inaudible sniffle, and, being caught in it, wiped her nose on her apron.
Misc Somers brought me up whar the tavern used to be. It ain't a stand no more. Uncle Meshach owns it." "Is it a nice place?" "Now it ain't as nice as it use to be, Aunt Vesty" the girl glided easily over what Vesta thought might be a hard word "sence the shews don't stop thar no mour." "The shoes? What is that?" "The wax figgers and glass-blowers, and the strongis' man in the world.