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"Something may have changed," Buck suggested. "No, suh, I've heard. Hit were my bullet I've heard. Hit's a trial, an' hit's hit's hanging!" "Sh-h! Not so loud!" Buck warned. "If it's lawyer money you need?" "I got 'leven hundred, an' a trial lawyer'll cost only a thousand, Buck! Yo's a friend Lawse! I'd shore like to talk to him. He's no detector, Parson Rasba yain't.
She shuddered. Flame jets were already shooting out here and there. "I wouldn't let you go back for the world. We didn't get out too soon." "No," he agreed. A sniveling voice behind them broke in: "Where is Mr. Phil? I yain't seen him yet." Larrabie swung round on 'Rastus like a flash. "What do you mean? He's at the round-up, of course." The little fellow began to bawl: "No, sah.
"Sunday I plumb lost track of the days." "You'll preach, won't yo', Parson? I yain't hearn a sermon in a hell of a while," a man jeered, facetiously. "Suttingly. An' when hit's through, yo'll think of hell jes' as long," Rasba retorted, with asperity, and his wit turned the laugh into a cheer.
A door slammed in an outer hall, as she was still stirring and looking down into the stew. "Edwin!" "Yes, mother." "Don't track through the parlor." "Aw!" "You hear me?" "I yain't! Gee, can't a feller walk?" "Put your books on the hat-rack." "I am." She supped up bird-like from the tip of her spoon, smacking for flavor. "I made you an asafetida-bag, Edwin, it's in your drawer.
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