The boy looked so lonesome that he was reminded of his own father, who had never been comfortable with people. One's Mister Milton and the other's a Virgil. He was so lonely, and he didn't have much control. I expect Bol will die one of these days, and then we won't have nobody to whack the dinner bell with the crowbar.
Strangely, neither Pea nor Mr. I'll go have a look. Dish wished he had said more to the man at some point. I guess we ought to call him back before he gets lost.
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