“The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. Up to dinner yesterday I did not expect to come to Canton. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. The Idle Apprentice. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. You're easy to please. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago.
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