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"I'm her," said Mrs. Egg. Terrible cold invaded her bulk. She laced her fingers across her breast and gazed at the twisting face. The whisper continued: "They tell me your mamma's in the cem'tery, Myrtle. I've come home to lay alongside of her. I'm grain for the grim reaper's sickle. In death we sha'n't be divided; and I've walked half the way from Texas. Don't expect you'd want to kiss me.
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