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Updated: May 23, 2025
"I am." "Pu-pu-pup." She leaned around, trying to bring her face to front his and to lift her nose to a little wrinkly smile. "Aw, you!" "Go home and go to bed," he said. "A nice-appearin' girl like you ought to be ashamed." "I ain't." "Run along." "Where?" "You're barkin' up the wrong tree." She fell silent. A chill raced through her. "O God!" she began, under her breath. "O God! God!"
"I'm so 'fraid I shan't run across any of grandmother's folks over here, after all," she said yesterday, "though I ask every nice-appearin' person I meet anywheres if he or she's any kin to Mary Boyce of Trim; and then, again, I'm scared to death for fear I shall find I'm own cousin to one of these here critters that ain't brushed their hair nor washed their apurns for a month o' Sundays!
You know they would; you know this here town. And no wonder they'd talk. You're a nice-appearin' woman, Lizzie, yet. No; I ain't one to flatter; you be. And ain't he a man? and a likely man, too, for all he's crazy. Course they'd talk! Now, Lizzie, don't you get to figgerin' on this. It's just like you! How many cats have you got on your hands now? I bet you're feedin' that lame dog yet." Mrs.
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