The police raided the gambling den.
[…] say My wife’s a hobby-horse, deserves a name As rank as any flax-wench that puts to Before her troth-plight: say’t and justify’t.
Soon Marshall is doing an elaborate foot-to-foot jig, and then they're all bounding around. Shoulder dips. Yee-ha faces. It's an impromptu hoedown.
And for a moment it seemed that everything would be all right, that we were traveling back in time to that idyllic farm near a drinkwater town in Iowa, back to my boyhood, and that Mina would always smile up at me from her bed.
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