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Crymble could get her thin lips nipped together and her hands on her hips she pulled herself into her accustomed self-reliant poise. "It's you, is it, you straddled-legged, whittled-to-a-pick-ed northin' of a clothes-pin, you? You've sneaked back to sponge on me in your old age after runnin' off and leavin' me with a run-down farm and mortgidge!
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