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Updated: May 16, 2025
"Going to Goodwood?" "Yes. We take Brighton this time with the Sendalls." And so on. It dribbles for the regulation time, and, after a sufficient period of mortal endurance, the crowd disperse, and proceed to scandalize each other or to carry news elsewhere about the ladies who were looking "remarkably well-l-l." As for the dreadful crushes, what can one say?
Wrenn sat in the wicker rocker by the window, patting his scrubby tan mustache and reviewing the day's wandering. When the gas was lighted he yearned over pictures in a geographical magazine for a happy hour, then yawned to himself, "Well-l-l, Willum, guess it's time to crawl into the downy." He undressed and smoothed his ready-made suit on the rocking-chair back.
"Not on your tin-type," declared the ticket-taker. "`Me? I says to her. `Me? I'd pinch the harp and pawn it for ten growlers of Dutch beer and some man-sized rum!" "Hee, hee hee!" grinned Mr. Wrenn. "Ha, ha, ha!" grumbled the bartender. "Well-l-l," yawned the ticket-taker, "the old woman'll be chasing me best pants around the flat, if she don't have me to chase, pretty soon.
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