I don't care how lonesome it is. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. Happy Thanksgiving. “Just look that through, will you. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. “Where have you been? All these hours I have been calling for you.
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