Technically, you’re doing a poor job. You have no form.The hatchet flails down into the uprooted stump.The beagle howls. George Williams, Mr. Horton, Hilliary,and the other neighbors spring up in their beds.The dog’s mug and paws clatter the chain-link fencelike an ambitious kid assigned to the chimes in music classsweeping the tiny stick over the…

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