“It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. . \" Shari drawled as she looked up from her dissected sausage. Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. The burden of decision had been transferred. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. The cave had always been considered an evil place by the braves and for the most part they left her alone. He should never sufficiently be able to regret the return which they had made to her.
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