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Stratton-Porter, Gene, 1863-1924

"Freckles"

Then wear a
blue flannel shirt a little open at the throat, a red tie, and a
broad-brimmed felt hat, and ride past my house of evenings. I'm always
at home then, and almost always on the veranda, and, oh! but I would
like to see you! Will you do that for me?" It is impossible to describe
the art with which the Angel asked the question. She was looking
straight into Jack's face, coarse and hardened with sin and careless
living, which was now taking on a wholly different expression. The evil
lines of it were softening and fading under her clear gaze. A dull red
flamed into his bronze cheeks, while his eyes were growing brightly
tender.
"Yes," he said, and the glance he gave the men was of such a nature that
no one saw fit even to change countenance.
"Oh, goody!" she cried, tilting on her toes. "I'll ask all the girls
to come see, but they needn't stick in! We can get along without them,
can't we?"
Jack leaned toward her. He was the charmed fluttering bird, while the
Angel was the snake.
"Well, I rather guess!" he cried.


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