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At the open door, with the hot wind tossing worn white curls and parching shriveled cheeks, now wearily raising his battered hat, stood my dear Uncle Sam, the Sawyer. "Lor' a massy! young lady, be you altogether daft? In my best of days, never was I lips for kissing. And the bootifulest creatur Come now, I ain't saved your life, have I now?" "Yes, fifty times over fifty thousand times.
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