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For one instant Buck removed his eyes from the surface of the lake to glance at the snow-white head of his friend. Then he reached out and took the pocketbook. "Maybe Joan'll need it, anyway," he said, and thrust it in his pocket. "We must Say, git busy! Look!" Buck's quick eyes had suddenly caught sight of a fresh disturbance in the water.
"Oh, Joan'll get away from you. She's only fourteen now, but when she's my age well, I guess you and your old crowd are the last of the Mohicans. I doubt if there'll even be any chaperons left. Joan may not smoke nor drink. Who cares for 'vices, anyhow? But you haven't got a moat and drawbridge round Rincona, and she'll just get out and mix.
Joan'll be a wummon 'fore us can look round, mother." "Iss an' a fine an' lazy wummon tu. I wish you could make her work like what Mary does up Drift." "Well, I dunnaw. You see there's all sorts of girls, same as plants an' 'osses an' cetera. Some's for work, some's for shaw. You 'specks a flower to be purty, but you doan't blame a 'tater plant 'cause 'e ed'n particular butivul.
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