"Mother, I wonder how people do, when they are going to write a book?" "Do?" repeated her mother. "Yes. I wonder how they begin." "I suppose they have something to tell; and then they tell it," said simple Mrs. Carpenter. "No, no, but I mean a story." "What story have you got there?" The mother was shelling peas; the daughter, a girl of twelve years old perhaps, was sitting on the floor at her feet, with an octavo volume in her lap. The floor was...
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