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a web of many textures

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Common taters!” said Mrs. Partington to herself, as
she waked out of a little nap in which she had been
thrown by a soporific preacher. “What has common
taters to do with the Gospel?” The preacher
had alluded to some commentators, the odd sound of
which tickled her ear and wakened her. “Common taters!”


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she continued; “well, all sorts of taters are bad
enough, and many of 'em are rotten clean through; and
if he is calling his hearers such names, heaven knows
where he 'll stop. Common taters, indeed! I 'll send
him a peck of uncommon ones to-morrow, and show him
that all of 'em an't alike.” She left the house with a
very indefinite idea of what he meant, but determined
to set him right on the potato question.