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a web of many textures

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The line is down!” shouted Ike, as he swung open
the front-door. Mrs. Partington, thinking he meant the
clothes-line in the back-yard, darted to the window, but
everything was right. The night-caps swung to and fro
by their strings, the dresses waved their long arms in
the winds, and Ike's galligaskins, inflated by the breeze,
seemed struggling to be free. — “You should not tell


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such wrong stories, dear,” said she, “when there is no
occasion for it. The line is not down.” — “I meant the
Atlantic Telegraph line,” said he, with a face expressive
of the joy of both hemispheres; “and Queen Victoria
is going to send it to President Buchanan.” — “She is,
is she?” said the old lady. “Well, that is very kind in
her. I wonder if she will prepay the postage beforehand
in advance.” — “It is n't a letter,” cried he; “it is
a cable under the water from one country to the other,
over which messages can be sent.” — “I don't believe it
can be done,” said she; “for how can the messages come
without getting satiated with water?” — “I guess they 'll
be wrapped up in gutta-percha,” replied Ike. — “Maybe
so,” said the dame, thoughtfully, “maybe so, but it would
be a good deal safer to send 'em by the steamer; for
what if they should get stuck half-way?” She pondered
on it, and did not see that Ike had tied her ball of
yarn to the tongue of the bell, and was even then in a
remote position, preparing to send messages of mischief,
that would call her repeatedly to the door.