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"No, he is not! He has noble impulses ragpicking inspired! His eyes were misty when he spoke of it "A way out of Butterfly Thenter! "A ragpicker's cart "A way out " Petticoat held her up. "You seem a bit gone on that tin-type fellow, Sproggins." "Yop. Maybe I'd better go to Atlantic Thity for a while." "Oh, no, you stay here. A lady's place is in the home." So she was fairly thrown at Porgie.
You see, the fire was out, and the cook lighted it with kerosene, and she used such a lot something might of blew up." "And you knew that! You knew that two Petticoats might have been blown up " "Sure. Didn't you? Don't faint, pleathe!" Porgie Sproggins. Cave man. Brute. Hulking, enormous, shaggy-haired, prognathous jawed, a veritable Cro-magnard type. Bluely unshaven and scowling.
"Time to go home," he said, cheerfully. "Good night, Sproggins." He took her into the house through the conservatory, paused to pluck and twine a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds for her, adjusted it on her rather touseled curls, and took her out to the Moorish Courtyard. "Now, Warb, what about the baboon?" "I want to go ragpick with him and be pag-rickers together. Can I? Pleathe " "Nixy.
He does portraits that fairly make the eyes pop out of your head! He's got the world agog." Warble drifted back to the attraction. "Do like me," she said, and shot him a glance that was a bolt from the blue. Warble was of the appealing sex, and hardly a man was yet alive who could resist her. Sproggins turned on her fiercely.
"Do you like me?" she whispered. "No," he growled, and she kissed his hand which was like a hand by Rodin. Thus does the law of compensation get in its fine work. Warble remembered the little boy at the public school, and she wished she could give Sproggins a red balloon. "What is he?" she asked of Trymie. "A miniature painter," Icanspoon replied, "and a wonder!
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