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Updated: May 1, 2025
But what reason have we for thinking they will be found together?" "How were they dressed?" "Like people of fashion and respectability. He wore a brown-checked suit apparently fresh from the tailor; she, a dove-colored dress with white trimmings. The parasol shows the color of her hat and plumes. Do you think you can find them, Sweetwater?"
There was the pink-checked one and the brown-checked one and the prettiest one of all, the one with teenty little white checks marked off with buff. The one she should feel if she put out her hand was a blue-checked. Margaret drove her hands deep into the matted grass; she would not put them out. It was it was terrible! Now she understood it all. She remembered things.
"Pickering will like these," she said to herself in great satisfaction, and surveying her torn frock with composure, "for they are the very first, Mrs. Higby," addressing that individual standing over by the sink in the corner. "Please may I wash my hands? I had to go clear far down by the brook to get them." But Mrs. Higby, instead of answering, threw her brown-checked apron high over her head.
He was an infinitely sallow person in the brown-checked shirt of the ploughs and cows. The rest of his apparel was boots. A long grey beard dangled from his chin. He fixed glinting, fiery eyes upon the heap of men, and remained motionless. Fascinated, their tongues cleaving, their blood cold, they arose to their feet.
Whirr, whirr, went the machine, ticking fast and lightly over the belts of the rough jeans pants. Whirr, whirr, yes, and Miss Sophie was actually humming a tune! She felt strangely light to-day. "Ma foi," muttered Michel, strolling across the street to where Madame Laurent sat sewing behind the counter on blue and brown-checked aprons, "but the little ma'amselle sings. Perhaps she recollects."
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