<poem> Harold Scott sold cheap shoes. He had a small lorry, and he bought the shoes _ the factory and took them from one house _ another and tried to sell them _ people. He sold a lot _ his shoes _ small villages, because there were not many shops there, and people did not want to go _ the town and buy their shoes there. One day Harold drove _ the street _ a village and stopped _ front _ one of the houses. There was a small boy _ the door. Harold opened the window _ his lorry and called _ the boy, “Hello. Is your mother _ home?” The boy looked _ him. Then he answered, “Yes, she is.” “That's good,” Harold said, and he smiled. He got out _ his lorry, took some shoes _ the back and went _ the door _ the house. He knocked _ the door and then he waited, but the door did not open. _ a minute, Harold knocked _ the door again and waited _ two minutes, but again the door did not open. Then Harold looked _ the small boy and said _ an angry voice, “Your mother is not _ home.” “She is,” the small boy answered. “Then why hasn't she opened the door?” Harold asked. “Because this isn't my house,” the small boy answered. </poem>
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