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Updated: May 22, 2025
Fred exclaimed, turning his back to pick out another stick for the stove. "Yes, my girl, my only girl it's her I came to see. She's living near here. I guess you'd know her: she's married to a no-good Englishman, a real lizzie-boy, that wouldn't say boo to a goose!" Fred continued to fix the fire, poking it unnecessarily.
"And I'll gamble that's a spot higher than he stacks up in the cow game," Pink observed with the pessimism which matrimony had given him. "You mind him asking about bad horses, last night? That Lizzie-boy never saw a bad horse; they don't grow 'em where he come from. What they don't know about riding they make up for with a swell rig " "And, oh, mamma! It sure is a swell rig!"
Demps Donovan picked a scrap with your Lizzie-boy, and they've waltzed out to the slaughter room with him. How's my hair look done up this way, Mag?" Maggie laid a hand on the bosom of her cheesecloth waist. "Gone to fight with Dempsey!" she said, breathlessly. "They've got to be stopped. Dempsey Donovan can't fight him. Why, he'll he'll kill him!" "Ah, what do you care?" said Rosa.
In the rear of the eighty-thousand-dollar cottage there was a thirty-thousand-dollar flower-garden an oppressively clean garden, where the big Jack-roses were as immaculate as a "mama's Lizzie-boy," and the well-bred, timid little violets seemed to long to play in the dirt, yet dared not because of the master-rule of "form."
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