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a web of many textures

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Mrs. Partington opened her eyes wide, as Ike read
in the paper that there would be an “occultation of
Jupiter with the moon.” — “Occultation!” what a word
for Mrs. Partington, who had not quite all of Worcester's
unabridged dictionary by heart. “Occultation?” queried
she, with an air of doubt, as if but half sure that


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she had heard rightly, and looking earnestly at the
boy, to unravel her doubt. — “Occultation,” replied Ike,
putting his finger on the word with an emphasis that
made a hole right through the paper, entirely ruining
the story of the “Seven Champions, or the Bloody
Wreath,” on the other side of the sheet; “it is so
here.” — “Well,” said she, “get the directory and see
what is oc — oc —” — “Occultation,” prompted Ike, as
he passed out to find his school-books, hid during vacation
time. — “That is a queer word,” meditated she, like
Harvey among the tombs; “and what occupation Jupiter
can have with the moon, I don't see. I declare I
am all in the dark about it; and these explanatory matters,
and consternations and things, I believe are all
moonshine. Let me have all the stars to look at, and
other folks may see what else they can in the corncave
on high.” Ike came back without the “directory,” and
there was a strange dark mark about the corners of his
mouth, that looked like the raspberry-jam the old lady
kept up stairs for sickness.