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Updated: May 17, 2025
But Hippolyta was a person evidently accustomed to have her own way, and she ran straight up to Josey Letherbarrow as though he were the one choice hero picked out of a world. "Zozey!" she screamed, stretching out a pair of short, mottled arms; "My own bootiful Zozey-posey! Tum and pick fowers!" With an ecstatic shriek at nothing in particular, she caught the edge of the old man's smock.
"My Zozey," she said purringly, "'Oo vezy old, but I loves 'oo!" A smile and then a laugh went the round of the group. They were all accustomed to Ipsie's enthusiasms. Josey Letherbarrow paused a minute to allow his small admirer to take firm hold of his garments, and patted her little head with his brown wrinkled hand.
"Dunno!" she said "'Specks I will! But oh, my Zozey-Posey IS so bad!" and she screwed her little flaxen head round with an expression of the most comical distress "See my wip?" And she held up a long stem of golden-rod in flower, "Zozey dot to be wipped poor Zozey! But he's dot to be tied up fust!"
"She ain't finished her dinner!" breathlessly proclaimed a long- legged girl of about ten, who had run after the child, being one of her numerous sisters; "Mother said she was to come back straight." "I s'ant go back!" declared Ipsie defiantly; "Zozey and me's sweetheartin'!" Old Josey chuckled. "That's so! So we be!" he said tranquilly; "Come along little lass! Come along!"
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