It was Sunday, and overcast—as usual. ' Larch showed Homer a letter he was writing—it was still in the typewriter. The wide-eyed, unflinching face, which the tall weeds sheltered from the wind, stared past Curly, undisturbed. counting the one-bushel crates before they were loaded on the flatbed trailer and giving every picker credit for each bushel picked.
He had managed to steal some time away from the orphanage, but St. 'I'm trying to look nice for the nice couple,' Curly explained. The stationmaster, who hated to leave the television, was shoveling snow off the platform when the train pulled in. 'If you had a woman like that, wouldn't you try to leave her?' 'In the first place,' the foreman said, 'I wouldn't ever have a woman like that.
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