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There were five children in the Marcus family and they were a difficult and quarrelsome lot. Everybody said so. The Marcus children did not get along with each other and they did not get along with their parents. 


Their Mother was a saint. Everybody said so. How could she put up with five children! Five! And all of them quarrelsome. All of them noisy. All of them fighting and yelling. She hardly had time to think with all the Time Outs and the yellings and the screamings and the tattoos and the broken furniture and the flying pillows and the visits from the school principal and the banging on the front door by neighbors who had their gardens trampled or their picnics destroyed or their cars covered with soggy toilet paper.


She was so busy dealing with the chaos authored by the Marcus children that she lost hope of stopping it. All she did was pick up the pieces. How could one person handle such a crew? No one could. No wondered she was so flustered and frazzled. And with that husband? She had to be a saint. 




Saint Marcus

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