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"Oh, 'Sbud! not so much as the mercy of a glance will the lady afford him." And he burst into the ballad of King Francis: "Souvent femme varie, Bien, fol est qui s'y fie!" and laughed his prodigious delight at the aptness of his quotation. Mr. Caryll put up his gold-rimmed quizzing-glass, and directed through that powerful weapon of offence an eye of supreme displeasure upon the singer.
Craske, the poet, who stood at her elbow now, had described them in the dedicatory sonnet of his last book of poems. There was a sudden stir in the group. Mr. Craske had caught sight of Lady Ostermore and Mistress Winthrop, and he fell to giggling, a flimsy handkerchief to his painted lips. "Oh, 'Sbud!" he bleated. "Let me die! The audaciousness of the creature!
"Is that a decent way to talk to a man who is going out? Never heed him, Dick! Let him wait for his dirty guineas till we return." "Thirty guineas?" hiccoughed Richard. "It was only eight. Anyhow wait'll I've sli' the gullet of's Mr. Wilding." He checked on a thought that suddenly occurred to him. He turned to Vallancey with a ludicrous solemnity. "'Sbud!" he swore.
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