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Her hair on the back of her head, and its shape to the nape of her neck, were so beautiful she had never seen it: how could she say it wasn't? Her chin and her throat well, if people could think snow was a prettier white, he wouldn't give much for their head-stuffin'. And her blush! her blush! It was her own fault.
He gazed in open-mouthed amazement at the unsuspecting old gentleman, who was also unaware of the far more formidable open mouth of the rifle. "Now, ain't ye lackin' fur head-stuffin'?" suddenly yelled out Birt, from his hiding-place. The startled old man jumped, with the most abrupt alacrity.
Birt rose at last to his feet and looked with a pallid face over the underbrush. "Now, ain't ye lackin' fur head-stuffin'," he faltered, "a-steppin' along a deer-path ez nat'ral ez ef ye war a big fat buck? I kem mighty nigh shootin' ye." The old gentleman recovered his equilibrium, mental and physical, with marvelous rapidity.
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