What horrors fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed! This," continued Pomona, "is the end of the novel," and she laid her foolscap pages on the porch.
Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this.

We had just reached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard nothing yet about that affair of the taxes.
"You see, sir," said Pomona, "it took me so long to write out the chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, that I hadn't time to finish up the rest.

But I can tell you what happened after that jus' as well as if I had writ it out." And so she went on, much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of the lightning-rod man.
"There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin' his old rods and hammerin' away for dear life.

He'd brought his ladder over the side fence, where the dog, a-barkin' and plungin' at the boy outside, couldn't see him.

I stood dumb for a minute, an' then I know'd I had him.