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Updated: May 23, 2025
But her husband was beforehand in answering. "No, nor he woon't hev the stick, whether you want it or no," pursued Dagley, throwing out his voice, as if he wanted it to hit hard. "You've got no call to come an' talk about sticks o' these primises, as you woon't give a stick tow'rt mending. Go to Middlemarch to ax for your charrickter."
I couldn't help but sell the farm, and we can't go back to it, for it ain't there. So don't you say anything more about it, 'Liz'beth." "Pore Jacob!" said his wife. "Well, I woon't, dear." It was clear to Beaton that Dryfoos distrusted him; and the fact heightened his pleasure in Christine's liking for him.
And I don't believe I'll ever feel at home anywheres else. I woon't know where I am when the trumpet sounds. I have to think before I can tell where the east is in New York; and what if I should git faced the wrong way when I raise? Jacob, I wonder you could sell it!" Her head shook, and the firelight shone on her tears as she searched the folds of her dress for her pocket.
But I want you to watch out, and if ever you can help him, or do anything for him, remember that I wanted you to do it: a boy can often help a man." "I will, mother. But I don't see the reason, if he's so very wicked, why " "That's the very reason, Joey dear. And go and tell Benny now that I let you go. And don't tell him what I said about the Good Old Man." "Oh, I woon't, I woon't, mom!
I couldn't help but sell the farm, and we can't go back to it, for it ain't there. So don't you say anything more about it, 'Liz'beth." "Pore Jacob!" said his wife. "Well, I woon't, dear." It was clear to Beaton that Dryfoos distrusted him; and the fact heightened his pleasure in Christine's liking for him.
And I don't believe I'll ever feel at home anywheres else. I woon't know where I am when the trumpet sounds. I have to think before I can tell where the east is in New York; and what if I should git faced the wrong way when I raise? Jacob, I wonder you could sell it!" Her head shook, and the firelight shone on her tears as she searched the folds of her dress for her pocket.
He keeps hitting the books with a little switch, and screamin' out as if the house was afire." "Come, say over some Dutch; woon't you, Horace?" So the little boy repeated some German poetry, while his schoolmates looked up at him in wonder and admiration. This was just what Horace enjoyed; and he continued, with sparkling eyes, "I s'pose you can't any of you count Dutch?"
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