America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged.
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