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He'th named The Little Wonder of Thcolathtic Equitation; and if you don't hear of that boy at Athley'th, you'll hear of him at Parith. And you recollect Kidderminthter, that wath thought to be rather thweet upon yourthelf? Well. He'th married too. Married a widder. Old enough to be hith mother. Thee wath Tightrope, thee wath, and now thee'th nothing on accounth of fat.
"But hard ith the chathe my thad heart mutht purthue, While Daphne, thweet Daphne, thtill flieth from my view."
Come now, the opening chorus of act one, and please this time keep on the key. Before, it was sour, sour. Come! La-la-la . . ." "Mr Thalzburg!" "Miss Trevor?" "There was an awfully thweet fox-trot you used to play us. I do wish . . ." "Some other time, some other time! Now we must work. Come! La-la-la . . ." "I wish you could have heard it, girls," said the cherub regretfully.
As he passed by the row of houses looking across the road towards the river, from Mr. Irons's hall-door step a well-known voice accosted him 'A thweet night, doctor the moon tho thilver bright the air tho thoft! It was little Puddock, whose hand and face were raised toward the sweet regent of the sky. 'Mighty fine night, said Sturk, and he paused for a second.
Her last glance, full of significance, was for Mr. Arnheim. The floor above he also left the elevator, the smile still on his lips. Left alone, Mr. Epstein turned to Miss Blondheim. "Good night, dearie," he whispered. "Thweet dreamth." "Good night, Louie," she replied. "Same to you." Mr.
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