Donald was right. Uncle Scrooge stamped home through the snow, all the way across town to his big old empty mansion.
He locked the door behind him. He drew all the curtains and shades.
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Then he stamped up the stairs to his cold, dark room. And he propped himself up in bed with a book and a candle to read it by.
»Christmas - humbug,« he muttered to himself. »I don't care for anyone. And nobody cares for me. That's the way, if I had my say, that everyone would be!«
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