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Updated: May 28, 2025
General Villivicencio sat and waited among the serpents and innocents. His spirits began to droop again. Revolving Mossy's words, he could not escape the fear that possibly, after all, his son might compromise the Villivicencio honor in the interests of peace. Not that he preferred to put his son's life in jeopardy; he would not object to an adjustment, provided the enemy should beg for it.
I value all things he had lately or ever touched; even the old quilt that used to be spread on my bed for him to lie on, and which we called Mossy's quilt; and the pan that he used to drink out of in the parlor, and which was always called Mossy's pan, dear darling!
Mossy's door, on the contrary, swung ajar when he knocked, and the General entered. "Well, my son, have you seen that newspaper? No, I think not. I see you have not, since your cheeks are not red with shame and anger." Dr. Mossy looked up with astonishment from the desk where he sat writing. "What is that, papa?" "My faith!
Miss Mitford's tribute to her defunct doggie shows to what a degree of imbecility an old maid may carry fondness for her pets, but it is pathetically amusing. "My own darling Mossy's hair, cut off after he was dead by dear Drum, August 22, 1819.
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