She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. The evenings were dulcet and soft. It’s a pure joy of giving—giving to YOU.
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