And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached.
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Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now.
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Glory was sufficient.
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He would live for glory.
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Now that he was distinguished, maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her-she should see that he could be as indifferent as some other people.
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Presently she arrived.
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Tom pretended not to see her.
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He moved away and joined a group of boys and girls and began to talk.
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Soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes, pretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter when she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too.
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It gratified all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so, instead of winning him, it only "set him up" the more and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that he knew she was about.
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Presently she gave over skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and glancing furtively and wistfully toward Tom.
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Then she observed that now Tom was talking more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else.
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She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once.
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She tried to go away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group instead.
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She said to a girl almost at Tom's elbow-with sham vivacity:
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"Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn't you come to Sunday-school?"
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"I did come-didn't you see me?"
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"Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?"
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"I was in Miss Peters' class, where I always go. I saw you."
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"Did you? Why, it's funny I didn't see you. I wanted to tell you about the picnic."
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"Oh, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?"
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"My ma's going to let me have one."
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"Oh, goody; I hope she'll let me come."
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"Well, she will. The picnic's for me. She'll let anybody come that I want, and I want you."
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"That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?"
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