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The sight that met Mr. Tod's eyes in Mr. Tod's kitchen made Mr. Tod furious. There was Mr. Tod's chair, and Mr. Tod's pie dish, and his knife and fork and mustard and salt cellar, and his table-cloth, that he had left folded up in the dresser—all set out for supper (or breakfast)—without doubt for that odious Tommy Brock.
There was a smell of fresh earth and dirty badger, which fortun-
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