She’d dropped her eyes to her pocket as she put the paper away again, not wanting Aunt Cord to see the resentment in them. Like in that old Marty Robbins song about the man with the big iron on his hip. She could have stopped then, but chose not to. but she could believe it now.
This newcomer was blocky and blessedly un-thin in his boxtail coat. Aye, a way of making friends. ”“Aye, as ye will. “Will you be ready with the riddles from your book when I call on you?”“Yes.
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