“You poor little girl!” he cried. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel. He was six blocks away from his home, a ten story building apparently made solely of glass. It plucked shingles from the school building, threatening to shake them all loose one by one like rotting teeth. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically.
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