He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. You get the idea. “I shan’t eat him. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. I would that you were my own. "But, let that pass. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. " So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate.
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