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Cluff came running down the long structure in great strides. "Moses, Carroll! I'm glad to see you! Where've you been?" A week earlier, the scion of all the Virginias would have resented this familiarity from a professional athlete. But neither Mr. Carroll's mind nor his heart was a sealed inclosure. He had learned much in the last few days. "Up on the mountain," he said.
Then the horse, buggy and driver appeared at the other side, and in a few moments had overtaken him. He looked up sharply, scrutinisingly. Suddenly he burst out: "Holy mother, Chris, is that you! Where've you been? Are you all right?" She had whipped up her horse at first sight of him, thinking he might be some drunken rough. "Mais, mon dieu, Nic, is that you?
"We'll have to cross the street." They crossed over and under the pretense of looking at the billboards in front of the moving picture theater kept watch on their man. "Where've you been?" demanded Bob. "Just following that man around," said Hugh. "What happened to you?" and he looked at his friend's torn and dirty clothes. Bob related the story of his experiences.
"Come in," called the rancher. Columbine went in. "Hello, dad! Do you want me?" Belllounds sat at an old table, bending over a soiled ledger, with a stubby pencil in his huge hand. When he looked up Columbine gave a little start. "Where've you been?" he asked, gruffly. "I've been calling on Mrs. Andrews," replied Columbine. "Did you go thar to see her?"
The girl looked up at him suspiciously. "Where've you been?" she asked. "With the horses," he answered. She was not to be deceived. "You've been having a hunt of your own," she said. "I hope you didn't find." He looked out of the window evasively. "Scent poor to bad," he said slowly. By the time they mounted it was late in the afternoon, and the glory had departed from the day.
"I don't s'pose you've heard anything yet from your father?" "No, I 'ain't. I've got to go home." "Where've you been, Jerome?" asked Adoniram Judd. "Up to Uncle Ozias's to get Elmira's shoes." Jerome had the stout little shoes, one in each hand. "I don't s'pose you've formed any idee of what's become of your father," said Simon Basset.
Joe was a mighty blond giant, only Martie's age, and younger, except in inches and in sinews, than his years. He had a sweet, simple face, rough, yellow hair, and hairy, red, clumsy hands. A greater contrast to gentle little Sally, with her timid brown eyes and the bloodless quiet of manner that was like her mother and like Lydia, could hardly have been imagined. "Where've you been?" Martie asked.
When he entered the cabin where the table was set, Curly cried, "Hello, Judge! Where've you been? I swear you look as if you'd been walking with a ghost." "Perhaps I have," Enoch replied, grimly, as he took his seat. Harden and Forrester, none too energetic, but shaven and in order, were at the table, where their story was eagerly picked from them.
The blazing folds of a cerise satin gown held in her hands made a great, crude patch of colour in the neutral-tinted bedroom. The air was heavy with scent. Hair, teeth, eyes, fingernails Two-eighteen glowed and glistened. Chairs and bed held odds and ends. "Where've you been, girl?" shrilled Two-eighteen. "I've been waiting like a fool! I told you to be here in fifteen minutes."
Then the horse, buggy and driver appeared at the other side, and in a few moments had overtaken him. He looked up sharply, scrutinisingly. Suddenly he burst out: "Holy mother, Chris, is that you! Where've you been? Are you all right?" She had whipped up her horse at first sight of him, thinking he might be some drunken rough. "Mais, mon dieu, Nic, is that you?
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