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Updated: May 12, 2025
An' pigs in June's a disgrace ter Christians, let alone Presbyterians like us uns." The old man glanced at him. Oth's spine gave his tongue free license. "I'll discharge him," faintly. "'Scharge yerself," growled Oth, under his breath.
"Yes, Miss Clare, and you drissed it for me that night, when I crawled down the beach 'cause my leg was broke too," he replied. "And we was all of us there, and you took care of us all and drissed our wounz. I was with Colonel Shaw, and crawled out of the fote. The oth's nevah got in. But we all got to you, Miss Clare. And now you's got to us.
Then, when he took up the pen, she went out into the cool night. "I do what I can," said he, earnestly, looking at the catalogue, with his head to one side. It was Oth's time, now or never. "Debbil de bit yer do! Ef yer did what yer could, Mars' Si, dar 'ud be more 'n one side o' sparerib in de cellar fur ten hungry mouths. We've gone done eat dat pig o' Miss Grey's from head ter tail.
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