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Widdup's hand. She blushed. Oh, yes, it can be done. Just hold your breath and compress the diaphragm. "Mrs. Widdup," said Mr. Coulson, "the springtime's full upon us." "Ain't that right?" said Mrs. Widdup. "The air's real warm. And there's bock-beer signs on every corner. And the park's all yaller and pink and blue with flowers; and I have such shooting pains up my legs and body."
A strange requiem, you may say, over the body of a fallen, comrade; but if Jimmy Hayes could have heard it he would have understood. I sat an hour by sun, in the editor's room of the Montopolis Weekly Bugle. I was the editor. The saffron rays of the declining sunlight filtered through the cornstalks in Micajah Widdup's garden-patch, and cast an amber glory upon my paste-pot.
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