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Sir Gibbie by George MacDonald
page 5 of 665 (00%)
something in the kennel. He had found what he had been looking for
so long. He sprang to his feet and bounded with it into the sun,
rubbing it as he ran upon what he had for trousers, of which there
was nothing below the knees but a few streamers, and nothing above
the knees but the body of the garment, which had been -- I will not
say made for, but last worn by a boy three times his size. His
feet, of course, were bare as well as his knees and legs. But
though they were dirty, red, and rough, they were nicely shaped
little legs, and the feet were dainty.

The sunbeams he sought came down through the smoky air like a
Jacob's ladder, and he stood at the foot of it like a little
prodigal angel that wanted to go home again, but feared it was too
much inclined for him to manage the ascent in the present condition
of his wings. But all he did want was to see in the light of heaven
what the gutter had yielded him. He held up his find in the
radiance and regarded it admiringly. It was a little earring of
amethyst-coloured glass, and in the sun looked lovely. The boy was
in an ecstasy over it. He rubbed it on his sleeve, sucked it to
clear it from the last of the gutter, and held it up once more in
the sun, where, for a few blissful moments, he contemplated it
speechless. He then caused it to disappear somewhere about his
garments -- I will not venture to say in a pocket -- and ran off, his
little bare feet sounding thud, thud, thud on the pavement, and the
collar of his jacket sticking halfway up the back of his head, and
threatening to rub it bare as he ran. Through street after street
he sped -- all built of granite, all with flagged footways, and all
paved with granite blocks -- a hard, severe city, not beautiful or
stately with its thick, grey, sparkling walls, for the houses were
not high, and the windows were small, yet in the better parts,
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