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Take it away, sir,” she says, “it’s a face that never turned from me in sickness and distress, and I can hardly bear to turn from it now, when, God knows, I suffer both in no ordinary degree.” I couldn’t say nothing, but I raised my head from the inventory which I was filling up, and looked at Fixem; the old fellow nodded to me significantly, so I ran my pen through the “Mini” I had just written, and left the miniature on the table.
"For the love of God, mother!" cried Mini, "Madame said it was for Angélique." He knew too well what new milk would trade for. The woman laughed and flung on her shawl. "Only a little, then; only a cupful," cried Mini, clutching her, struggling weakly to restrain her. "Only a little cupful for Angélique." "Give her bread!" She struck him so that he reeled, and left the cabin.
"What would it be like?" said Tom. "I don't know. I dare say it would be something like the little tiny pictures there used to be in the drawing-room, hanging up in velvet cases on the wall mini something mother called them, of papa's aunts when they were little. They had white frocks, and blue sashes, tied right under their arms, and their hair all curling." "Oh yes, I remember," said Tom.
Shortly after that date, Antonio Mini seems to have taken his place as Michelangelo's right-hand man of business. These details are not so insignificant as they appear.
They said she would be very like Mini, and there was reason why in her wretched infancy. Mini's was the only love she ever knew. When she saw the sunny sky his weak arms carried her, and many a night he drew over her the largest part of his deplorable coverings. She, too, was strangely silent. For days long they lay together on the straw, quietly suffering what they had known from the beginning.
Wat Gamma had left his garment rolled up in the mat upon which he usually slept; this was in the same spot where the camel-drivers lived, and where old Mini declared he was fast asleep during the drinking bout. I had my suspicions, but to express them would have defeated the chance of discovery. I therefore adopted my usual rule in cases of theft.
This entailed a discussion among the people who had now assembled. It appeared that most of them had been "very drunk;" others only a little drunk; and one old white-headed Arab camel-driver had been perfectly sober, as he never drank anything but water. This was old Mini, a splendid specimen of a fine patriarchal Arab; he declared that he had not even joined the party.
This I immediately did, and Mini handed over to Jemma, with reluctance, three dollars for the poor-box of Gallabat, or the private pocket of the sheik, as the case may be.
One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into mine, said: "Father! Ramdayal the door-keeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn't know anything, does he?" Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was embarked on the full tide of another subject.
Angélique could not walk, and did not cry, so got nothing. Mini, however, went to her with the tin pail before his mother noticed it. "Bring that back!" she shouted. "Quick, baby!" cried Mini, holding it that Angélique might drink. But the baby was not quick enough. Her mother seized the pail and tasted; the milk was still almost warm. "Good," said she, reaching for her shawl.
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