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"Good morning, little buzzard-lark," said his sister, coming into his room just as he was thrusting his arms into his jacket. "Ho, Gracie! why didn't you wake me up?" "I spoke to you seven times, Horace." "Well, why didn't you pinch me, or shake me awake, or something?" "Why, Horace, then you'd have been cross, and said, 'Gracie Clifford, let me alone! You know you would, Horace."
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