"How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. “It’s like the Picture and the Bust. " "Wait a bit, massa," replied the grinning negro,—"lilly bit—see all right fust. At once. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Stow it in the saddle, for I will take it with me. I told her it was the end. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship.
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