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I've got to be at my baking; make y'rselves at home." "Now, Jim," said Bert, "I'm going t' stay right here while you go and order our trunks around just t' pay you off f'r last night." "All right," said Hartley, cheerily going out. After getting warm, Bert sat down at the organ and played a gospel hymn or two from the Moody and Sankey hymnal.
I've got to be at my baking; make y'rselves at home." Bert remarked how much she looked like his own mother in the back. She had the same tired droop in the shoulders, the same colorless dress, characterless with much washing. "Certainly. I feel at home already," replied Bert.
So I confess I have no record of time that night Frances Sutherland returned to her home and Mr. Sutherland kept guard at the door. When he had passed the threshold impatiently twice, I recollected with regret that it was impossible to read theology in the dark. The third time he thrust his head in. "Mind y'rselves," he called.
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