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And then, slower by degrees: "Depart, O Christian soul, from this sorrowful world; go to meet thy dear Bridegroom, Christ Jesus, and carry a lighted candle in thy hands: He Who...." Then Barbara, interrupting her, whispered: "Look, Virginie, he's getting worse; the rattle's getting fainter: turn over, you'll be too late."
Mary that you always said, an' every body said, was your own image! Oh, you won't go without one word, to say you know her!" "For Heaven's sake," said Father Mulcahy, "what do you mean? are you mad?" "Oh! uncle dear! don't you hear? don't you hear? listen an' sure you will all hope's gone now gone gone! The dead rattle! listen! the dead rattle's in her throat!"
Nettled at this usage, I could contain myself no longer, but, telling him, I imagined he would have paid more deference to Lord Rattle's recommendation, demanded my manuscript with some expression of resentment. "Ay," said he in a theatrical tone, "with all my heart."
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