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Updated: July 5, 2025
Terriberry as he sniffed the pungent atmosphere due to the odor of camphor emanating from clothing which had lain in the bottom of trunks since the wearers had "wagoned it" in from Iowa or Nebraska, "looks like you might call this here function a moth ball." Mr.
She looked about her at the cotton plush furniture of dingy red, at the marble-topped centre table upon whose chilly surface a large, gilt-edged family Bible reposed placed there by Mrs. Terriberry in the serene confidence that its fair margins would never be defiled through use.
"Hank" Terriberry passed through the hall as she descended the stairs and she watched him breathlessly. "Mornin', Doc." He nodded in friendly nonchalance and her heart leaped in relief. He knew nothing of the quarrel! "Wait a minute, Mr. Terriberry," she called, and he stopped. "Say, what church do you belong to? What are you?" Mr.
The girl withdrew herself from the plump embrace. "I didn't know it last night." "I declare, if this isn't romantic!" Mrs. Terriberry fanned herself vigorously with her apron. "You'll be the richest woman around here when Dubois dies." She added irrelevantly, "And I've been like a mother to you, Ess." "Why don't you and Dubois stay in town a few days and make us a visit?" Mr.
Terriberry, the latter herself clinging desperately to the fringe of Crowheart's social life, determined that no ordinary jar should shake her loose.
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