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Updated: April 30, 2025
Lay hold o' th' comb an' du my ringolets." The comb was thrust within cold fingers which did not close upon it. "If so bein' yer don't set ter wark and comb 'em out I'll shake ye. I'll shake ye, mother, du yer hare? Du yer hare, mother? Th' bell's gone, an' how'm I ter go ter school an' my ringolets not carled?"
She moistened them with her tongue, and made a feeble motion of kissing. A tear slid slowly down her cheek. "Not yit, my pretty gal," she whispered. "Mother ain't a-goin' ter lave yer yit." "Promus! Yer ain't a-tellin' no lies? Yer'll stop along of me till I kin carl my ringolets myself. I ha' got ter have 'em carled, and there ain't no one else to du 'em for me." The mother promised.
They were not curled that morning, however, for at the sound of the child's angry, frightened voice Mrs Barrett came running upstairs and seized her and dragged her from the room. "Yer baggige, yu! Ter spake i' that mander to a dyin' woman!" "She ain't a-dyin', then," the child screamed as she was thrust from the house. "She ain't a-dyin', an' I want my ringolets carled."
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