His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. " "Vouldn't it!" replied Jack, mimicking his snuffling voice; "then shtay vere you are, and be cursed to you. ” “He was probably right,” she declared. Probably hadn't. If he ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed off, or stifled. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. He would be so disappointed. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony.
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