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Updated: May 18, 2025
Onnie's name on this animal's tongue had maddened him, the reaction made him drowsy; but Ling's winter at Lawrenceville and Bill's in New York needed hearing. Rawling left the three at the hall fireplace while he read a new novel in the library.
Rawling shrugged, but when Varian telephoned that there were thirty men searching, he felt more comfortable. "You're using the wires a lot, Dad," said Sanford, roaming in. "Anything wrong? Where's Ling to sleep?" "In Pete's room. Good-night, Godson. No, nothing wrong." But Sanford was back presently, his eyes wide. "I say, Onnie's asleep front of my door and I can't get over her.
"Stop an' watch," he whispered. "They'll like seein' you, San. Onnie's been tellin' the women you've growed a yard." Sanford settled to the monotony of the endless sport, saluting known brown faces and answering yelps of pleasure from the small boys who squatted against the high fence behind the stake. "That's Percival," said Ling, as a man swaggered out to the pitching-mark.
The smith's long-legged daughter was gesticulating at the kitchen trellis, and Onnie's feet began a sort of war-dance in the wet grass as Rawling approached. "Where is this sufferin' pig, could your honor be tellin' me? God be above us all! With my name in his black, ugly mouth!
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