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Spilsby took no notice of this, but, seeing some people coming round the corner, commenced to sing out his praises of the specials. 'Ere yer are all 'ot an' steamin', he cried, in a kind of loud bleat, which added still more to his sheep-like appearance: 'Spilsby's Specials oh, lovely ain't they nice; my eye, fine muttin pies; who ses Spilsby's; 'ave one, miss? to Kitty.
"What ees dat?" inquired the girl, with a look of grave simplicity. "Did I speak?" returned Lawrence, a little confused. "Yes you say, `Ay, ay. Well, well. What a pittie!" "Oh! ah! yes I was only thinking, Manuela. What will you have?" "Som muttin," replied the girl, with a pursing of the little mouth that indicated a tendency to laugh. "It is not mutton. It's beef, I think."
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