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The smaller room had no outer exit, but three windows gave ample light and air. The front room, or living-room, as Marjorie termed it, was pleasantly furnished. On the floor was a rug of grass-matting and the furniture was of light wicker. The sofa, chairs, and tables were not of a size for grown people, but were just right for twelve-year-old little girls.
The six-yearold can disturb the conversation of the adult, but the twelve-year-old is sent to bed about eight o'clock, even when he, with wide open eyes, longs for a conversation that might be to him an inspiring stimulus for life.
"My detective was not clever enough to perceive the difference between the eight-year-old girl who was carried to your apartments at ten o'clock, and the twelve-year-old little maid whom your friend brought downstairs at eleven, pretending that he was going in search of the lost child's mother. Besides, everything conspired to aid your friend to escape.
That was why he quit Chicago for New York. Not a bad move, either; for he bought into Manhattan Transportation at just the right time. But I imagine he never forgave Gordon." "Huh!" says I. "So that's why they used to act so standoffish whenever they'd run across each other here at the studio. Well, well! And what's your idea of applyin' a poultice to Twombley-Crane's twelve-year-old sting?"
"I'm in luck, hurrah!" cried Connor Magan, as he threw up his brimless hat into the air the ringing, jubilant shout he sent after it could only spring from the reservoir of glee in the heart of a twelve-year-old boy. Giving a push to the skiff in which his father sat waiting for him, he jumped from the shore to the boat, and struck out into the Ohio river.
And when Simone Buonarroti found his twelve-year-old boy haunting the churches to watch the workmen, and also discovered that he was consorting with the youths who studied drawing in the atelier of Ghirlandajo, he was displeased.
He loved his father and mother; he loved his brothers and sisters; he loved his uncle, the Canon Lucien; he loved, more than all his other playmates and companions, his boy-uncle, fat, twelve-year-old Joey Fesch, who had taught him his letters, and been his admirer and follower from babyhood.
Thereupon the latter took a card from his pocket, and handed it across the table to his new friend. The old man read the card, with his sharp gray eyes, which glowed up funnily at Bert, seeming to say, "Isn't this rather aristocratic for a twelve-year-old news-boy?" Bert blushed and explained: "Got up for me by a printer's boy I know. I had done some favors for him, and so he made me a few cards.
Only three weeks previously a twelve-year-old boy who had gone in swimming near Corumba was attacked, and literally devoured alive by them. Colonel Rondon during his exploring trips had met with more than one unpleasant experience in connection with them. He had lost one of his toes by the bite of a piranha.
To whose ears had not come some longing cry for freedom, and especially freedom of the press? In short, there was no catchword of that stormy period which we ten and twelve-year-old boys could not have interpreted at least superficially.
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