If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. But here the resemblance stopped. “Girls of sixteen do not need their own laundry hampers. . I could always 108 tell right away whether my new foster home was going to be good or bad. He halted,—looked fearfully around,—stopped again, and exclaimed aloud, "I don't like the job; and yet it must be done, or Mr. Very intelligent, by the looks of the books she was carrying. “I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. Here is one verse. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat.
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