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"Won't dwandma be glad to get some nice sugar plums? I wis I tood det froo dis fence." Through she got, with much squeezing and rending. Tot eyed her torn pinafore, ruefully. "I wis' 'ittle dirl's aprons wouldn't teep tearing on every single fing." "'Pears to me," doubtfully, putting one little foot down on the soft marshy ground, "it is wather wet." Rather wet? Yes, Totchen, very wet.
"Well, Totchen," said Tot's boy-uncle Will, looking up from his book as something pierced his knee, as only Tot's small elbow could pierce. "Well, Totchen; what is it? Stories? Then jump!" O, what happy state to sit enthroned upon a big boy-uncle's knee, and listen, listen, listen, with eyes like the dog's in the fairy story "as big as the great round tower at Copenhagen" more or less!
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