You are not a coward David, and you must not talk like one. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. John’s parents were won over. It was excellently done, especially as she loved good dinners. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. He listened. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. That's one of the troubles with young folks: they take themselves so seriously.
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