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As Bog rushed into the room, she groaned audibly, and laid down the book, as if it were a wicked enjoyment. "I'm so bad to-day, Bog," said she. "Them shootin' pains'll be the death of me." Bog responded not a word, but dashed across the apartment, and, entering his little sleeping room, closed the door, and bolted it. "Unfeelin' creetur!" said his aunt.