TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG
“I c-can’t have anything to do with it,” sobbed the widow.
“Can’t, eh? Well, it’s me to the bridal chamber.”
A moment later he was knocking loudly at the door of the first floor front, while the landlady, with handkerchief half way to her eyes, stood clutching the lower banister of the stairs for support and four pompadoured heads jostled each other in the doorway of a back bedroom.
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