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Updated: June 21, 2025
And the wind that took his breath had a curious, piercing quality that hurt, as Uncle Bill had said, like breathing darning needles. "The White Death!" Literally it was that. Panting and quickly exhausted, as he "wallered snow to his neck," T. Victor Sprudell began seriously to doubt if he could make it.
They were expecting me and it was a regular company dinner chicken pie and strawberry shortcake. "I wallered in the grass all the forenoon tryin' to git enough berries for this celebration ayes! they ain't many of 'em turned yit," said Aunt Deel. "No, sir nothin' but pure cream on this cake. I ain't a goin' to count the expense."
"Yas'm, an' I wallered dar like er hot hog in wet leaves, tickled mighty nigh ter death; an' den I run off caze da mout want me ter go ez er witness an' mo'n dat, da might want ter sen' me ter de pennytenchy caze I grind de co'n." The last word alarmed her. "Do you think they will send him there? Do you?" "Oh, no'm, I doan think dat.
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