like a statue. From where she was sitting Mrs. Dollarhyde could see that the boy’s face was all screwed up like he was confused about something. He turned so that he faced away from her, and he stared off down the street like he was watching for somebody.
“Come on inside, Junior, and help your mom unpack,” the father’s husky voice called from the porch of the old Powell house.
The boy shook his head like he was shaking away cobwebs, and he started for the house again.
“Coming, Dad.”
The boy went inside the house. When she was finished with the last of the lemonade, Mrs. Dollarhyde went inside to make that fresh batch. She had decided that’s he would take it over to that nice family that very night.
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