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And that's you! chanted Polly Adams in a vigorous crescendo, as she
watched the retreating figure of her guest. Then climbing down from
her perch on the front gate, she added to herself, "Mean old thing!
I s'pose she thinks I care because she's gone home; but I'm glad of
it, so there!" And with an emphatic shake of her curly head, she
ran into the house. Up-stairs, in the large front room, sat her
mother and her aunt, busy with their sewing. The blinds were
closed, to keep out the warm sun of a sultry July day, and only an
occasional breath of air found its way in between their tightly
turned slats. The whir of the locust outside, and the regular
creak, creak of Aunt Jane's tall rocking-chair were the only sounds
to break the stillness.
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