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"Now then, Jinny, look alive, an' don't ack like a dyin' duck in a thunderstorm, or you'll never get back to do YOUR bit o' spoonin'! Save them bones, Polly. Never waste an atom, my chuck remember that, when you've got an 'ouse of your own! No, girls, I always says, through their stomachs, that's the shortcut to their 'earts. The rest's on'y fal-de-lal-ing."
"An' yet," sighed Mottle-face, "'e 'ad a werry good 'eart as 'ighvaymen's 'earts go; never shot nobody unless 'e couldn't help it, an' ven 'e did, 'e allus made a werry neat job of it, an' polished 'em off nice an' qvick." "Hum!" said the fussy gentleman, "still, I'm glad he's hanged." "Black Dan used to vork the roads south o' London,
Some uv these nurses, they've tender 'earts, bless 'em, and when I was in the 'awspital " But she turned her head and hurried on, and the voice was lost in the empty air. As she dipped into the slums of Westminster the sun gleamed on her wet face, and a group of noisy, happy girls, going to their work in the jam factories of Soho, came toward her laughing.
They don't beat the life out of 'em with their fists, nor drag 'em about the floor by the 'air." "Cuss 'em!" croaked Mother Guttersnipe, drowsily, "I'll tear their 'earts out."
If you ask my opinion, Miss Mariner's a long sight too good for her precious son!" "Oh, but Horace! Sir Derek's a baronet!" "What of it? Kind 'earts are more than coronets and simple faith than Norman blood, aren't they?" "You're talking Socialism, Horace." "No, I'm not. I'm talking sense.
I sez to John, sez I, 'I cawn't do no 'ousekeepin' with all 'em children 'bout my feet. An', bless their 'earts! it's all I kin do to put the bread in their mouths an keep the rags on their backs. But John sez to me, sez 'e, 'Don't yeh worry, lass, 'bout the rags. Keep 'em full, sez 'e, 'a full belly never 'eeds a bare back, sez 'e. That's 'is way.
And a good thing I didn't give you them two eggs for your dinner, as is fresh-laid by our own 'ens this mornin', and no others like 'em to be 'ad in London for love or money; and they shall 'ave 'em boiled light for their tea this very evenin'. And you look sharp, John, drat the man, 'ow long 'e is for I tell yon, these is reel gentlefolk, and them pore too, which makes it all the 'arder; and they've got to be treated the same in every respect as if they was paying a 'ole suvverin, bless their 'earts, the pore creechurs.
"He promised to send me a postcard to say how he got on, but I suppose he was too busy to remember," sighed Miss Nippett. "Surely not!" "He's like all these great men: all their 'earts in their fame, with no thought for their humble assistants," she complained, to add after a few moments' pause, "A pity you're married." "Why?"
Miss Lily Pratt struck up the tune, and the school arose. "Now, boys an' girls, an' grown-ups, too," cried the superintendent, "sing up fine an' 'earty. This is a 'appy land we live in an' we're goin' to a 'appier one; an' this is a 'appy day, an' I 'ope the good Lord 'll give us all 'appy 'earts." The school burst into song.
There they goes up an' down in their boats, devil-may-care, a-strumming on the banjo, he imitated such action, 'and a-singing their nigger minstrelsy with light 'earts. Why? 'Cause they ain't got no work to get up to at 'arf-past five next morning. Their time's their own! That's the condition of an unexploited country, my friends! Mr. Kitshaw had put everyone in vast good humour.
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