’ ‘Don’t talk soft,’ begged Martha. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “So far you’ve got me and I you. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. “Ssh!” said her mother, and then added, “A little natural feeling, dear.
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