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Dear Diary!
I always knew Mildred would change her tune once I won the
All-England Chimney-Sweeping Championship.
Yesterday she wrote to me for the first time since our
little tiff, pretending to complain about the prize-winning
soot I sent her.
I may be a simple man but I can read between the lines and
already I can hear our brood of little sweeps; the patter of
tiny feet on the roof, the scraping of little elbows, and
the coughing of little lungs.
I must write back and inform her of the names I've already
picked out.
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