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Updated: June 20, 2025
Hop's quilts above, with the overcoats in reserve the Sturgises considered themselves quite luxurious, after last night's shift at sleep. "What care we if the beds don't come?" Ken said. "We could live this way all summer. Let them perish untended in the trolley freight-house." But when Kirk was asleep, the note of the conversation dropped.
Eerily it tripped and chimed and lilted to its close, and the Maestro swung about and faced them, smiling still, quizzically. "What does it mean?" he asked. "I am very curious to know. Is it merely a tune or does it remind you of something!" The Sturgises pondered. "It's like spring," Felicia said; "like little leaves fluttering." "Yes, it is," Ken agreed.
The plot of land it enclosed reached, for the Sturgises, through a breach in the hedge was very different from the wild country which surrounded it. The place had once been a very beautiful garden, but years and neglect had made of it a half-formal wilderness, fascinating in its over-grown beauty and its hint of earlier glory.
It was this letter which shadowed Applegate Farm and dug a new think-line in Ken's young forehead. For Rocky Head Granite was, it seemed, by no means so firm as its name sounded. Mr. Dodge's hopes for it were unfulfilled. It was very little indeed that could now be wrung from it. The Fidelity was for Mother with a margin, scant enough, to eke out the young Sturgises' income.
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