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winnie foster has to decide whether or not to join the tucks who can live forever or spill the secret.
In the book Tuck Everlasting by Nathalie Babbitt there is the Tuck family who are immortal.A girl named Winnie is tired of her mother and decides to run away in the forest where she meets a boy drinking water from a magical spring. She gets to learn about him and his family (the tucks) and finds out they are immortal. Will everyone in the village find out and know that they are immortal or will it still be a secret?
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So, I just read this book again to quote it in an essay I am writing and I found two quotations that I liked. 'Winnie thought about this peril to the frogs, and sighed. "It'd be nice," she said, "if nothing ever had to die." "Well, now, I don't know," said Miles. If you think on it, you come to see there'd be so many creatures, including people, we'd all be squeezed in right up next to each other before long." I might put this quotation in my piece. This one is just humorous though, "How old are you anyway?" she asked, squinting at him. There was a pause. At last he said, "Why do you want to know?" "I just wondered," said Winnie. "All right. I'm one hundred and four years old," he told her solemnly. "No, I mean really," she persisted. "Well then," he said, "if you must know, I'm seventeen." "Seventeen?" "That's right." "Oh," said Winnie hopelessly. "Seventeen. That's old." "You have no idea," he agreed with a nod.
The ownership of land is an odd thing when you come to think of it. How deep, after all, can it go? If a person owns a piece of land, does he own it all the way down, in ever narrowing dimensions, till it meets all other pieces at the center of the earth? Or does ownership consist only of a thin crust under which the friendly worms have never heard of trespassing?
The road that led to Treegap had been trod out long before by a herd of cows who were, to say the least, relaxed. It wandered along in curves and easy angles, swayed off and up in a pleasant tangent to the top of a small hill, ambled down again between fringes of bee-hung clover, and then cut sideways across a meadow. Here its edges blurred. It widened and seemed to pause, suggesting tranquil bovine picnics: slow chewing and thoughtful contemplation of the infinite. And then it went on again and came at last to the wood. But on reaching the shadows of the first trees, it veered sharply, swung out in a wide arc, and passed around.
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