At last he did what I wanted: I stood so close I could snuff up nosefuls of his musty smell, and he snipped the curls from my head one by one.
His twelvish son is introduced as a pyromaniacal, foul-mouthed shifty operator. His fourteenish daughter dresses in a manner that would be deemed inappropriately suggestive for a twenty-year-old, and has no worthy interests or social graces.
If they're lazy derelicts and ne'er-do-wells she'll eat 'em up. But she's waiting for real men — British to the bone
Hank's Hardware is one of those quintessentially American places. . . . Hank's is a place where people can set a spell, but it is also a business, competing in the ever-tightening hardware marketplace.
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