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Home, and children that need you, and depend on you to keep them alive, and turn to you with their wrinkly little smiles. And the hearth and " She hid her face from Carol as she made an activity of patting the cushion of her chair, but she went on with her former briskness: "I mean, you must help us when you're ready. . . . I'm afraid you'll think I'm conservative. I am! So much to conserve.
He slapped his linen clad flank gleefully, and his round old face, which had been knotted with resolution, broke up into a wrinkly, ample smile; he spun on his heel and hurried back into the house and to the telephone in the hall. For half an hour, more or less, Judge Priest was busy at that telephone, calling in a high, excited voice, first for one number and then for another.
Tia Picores, towering with the majesty of a battle-scarred whale in her tall armchair, sat twitching her wrinkly mustached lips and frequently changing position to get the full warmth of the brazier she kept daily burning at her feet till full summer-time. As a veteran of the market, she had her regular trade and did not try overmuch to attract new customers.
This is a story about a dog, not the kind of dog you often see in the street here; not a fat, wrinkly pugdog, nor a smooth-skinned bulldog, nor even a big shaggy fellow, but a slim, silky-haired, sharp-eared little dog, the prettiest thing you can imagine. Her name was Wylie, and she lived in Scotland, far up on the hills, and helped her master take care of his sheep.
Hers a little blue wrinkly one that hit her far too far, below the knees, but her head flowered up in a polka-dotted turban, that well enough she knew bound her up prettily, and her arms were so round with that indescribable softiness of youth! Getaway, whose eyes could focus a bit when he looked at them, set up a leggy dance at sight of her.
While he was paying his check she got ahead. He ran after her, blubbering, "Vida! Wait!" In the shade of the lilacs in front of the Gougerling house he came up with her, stayed her flight by a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, don't! Don't! What does it matter?" she begged. She was sobbing, her soft wrinkly lids soaked with tears. "Who cares for my affection or help? I might as well drift on, forgotten.
I'm going to learn to be a business woman, and the little mother will be all dressed in satin and silks, and dine on what-is-it and peaches and cream the poem don't come out right, but, oh, my little mother, we're going out adventuring, we are!" She plunged down beside her mother, burrowed her head in her mother's lap, kissed that hand whose skin was like thinnest wrinkly tissue-paper.
He hung about the shopping districts, and prowled around in department stores with his invitations to dinner. Men who escort dogs upon the streets at the end of a string look down upon him. He is a type; I can dwell upon him no longer; my pen is not the kind intended for him; I am no carpenter. At ten minutes to seven Dulcie was ready. She looked at herself in the wrinkly mirror.
"Now you know why She makes you make the bed over again when it's wrinkly," gibed one Thing. "And why she makes you mend the holes in your stockings," another Thing. "She doesn't make me do the biggest ones!" flashed Margaret, hotly, but she could not stem the tide of Things. It swirled in. "Perhaps now you see why She makes you hem towels and wipe dishes "
Then he threw in his line again, and the next time when he pulled it up something came with it. Something wiggily, and black and yellow and red-spotted with wrinkly legs and a long snaky neck and head. "Ker-thump!" it landed on the bank and the boy ran up to it. "Why, I've caught a mud turtle!" he cried.
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