Aren’t you ever going to grow up? You’re twelve years old-almost a man-not a three-year-old child to be listening at doors!Ĭan’t you be quiet? John hissed. They won’t if you keep your voice down, he warned in a whisper. Sarah clasped her hands against the long, white apron that covered her dark work dress and demanded, John Smythe, what are you doing? If Father and Mother catch you, they’ll. Rubbing his bruised body, he shifted position and looked up at his ten-year-old sister, Sarah. Oomph! John quickly covered his mouth to muffle the groan he couldn’t hold back. Just then, John heard footsteps running down the hall, and before he could move, hard wooden shoes ran into his side. He strained to make out what his parents’ low voices were saying. His right ear was pressed against the crack under the door to the parlor. Twelve-year-old John Smythe lay flat on the floor of the dark hallway.
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