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Stratton-Porter, Gene, 1863-1924

"Freckles"

Lord O'More told me so.
I suspect you are richer than McLean, Freckles."
She closed his fingers over the slip and straightened his hair.
"Now you are all right, dear Limberlost guard," she said. "You go to
sleep and don't think of a thing but just pure joy, joy, joy! I'll keep
your people until you wake up. You are too tired to see anyone else just
now!"
Freckles caught her skirt as she turned from him.
"I'll go to sleep in five minutes," he said, "if you will be doing just
one thing more for me. Send for your father! Oh, Angel, send for him
quick! How will I ever be waiting until he comes?"
One instant the Angel stood looking at him. The next a crimson wave
darkly stained her lovely face. Her chin began a spasmodic quivering and
the tears sprang into her eyes. Her hands caught at her chest as if she
were stifling. Freckles' grasp on her tightened until he drew her beside
him. He slipped his arm around her and drew her face to his pillow.
"Don't, Angel; for the love of mercy don't be doing that," he implored.
"I can't be bearing it.


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