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She looked more than handsome now, so strangely lovely, in fact, that his eyes watered painfully with the protracted struggle to read a little of the writing in her book before she discovered him. He gave it up at last, and lounged forward blinking, with the air of finding it sweet to do nothing. "Whatch' writin'?" he asked in simple carelessness.
He'd say... What kind of whisky's this?" "O'Rafferty Special." "New to me. Not bad. Quite good. Sound. Mellow. Wherej get it?" "Bilby's in Oxford Street." "Must order some. Mellow. He'd say... well, God knows what he'd say. Whatch doing it for? Whatch doing it for? That's what I can't see. None of us can see. Puzzles your uncle George. Baffles your aunt Geraldine. Nobody can understand it.
"These here beasts, sir," said Small with a grin. "All on us. These canvas bags is heavy, and I want to see the weight o' the wittles distributed. Much easier to carry that way, and the bottles pitched overboard." "Hist!" whispered Billy Widgeon, who was peering through some bushes where the little river made a curve. "Whatch yer found, Billy?"
"Shupposing I have," Curtis replied, "shupposing I haven't whatch then?" "Ah, but I know you have," Hamar said, striving to hide his eagerness. "Come, tell me, another liqueur I'll square it with the Unknown it won't hurt you!" "Won't it!" Curtis gurgled. "Wont'ch it! I'll tell you everything. No nothingsh, I mean." But Hamar when once he had smelt a rat, was not easily put off.
If I hadn't had some sense and a weak heart... Whatch know of this girl? Whatch know of her? That's the point. Who is she? Wherej meet her?" "I met her at Roville, in France." "Travelling with her family?" "Travelling alone," said Bruce Carmyle, reluctantly. "Not even with that brother of hers? Bad!" said Uncle Donald. "Bad, bad!"
Appel, who undoubtedly would have gone on through the window when the coach lurched had it not been for his wife's presence of mind in clutching him by the coat, demanded in an angry voice instead of showing the gratitude she had reason to expect: "Whatch you doin'? Tearin' the clothes off'n m'back? Wisht you'd leave me be!" It had been years since Mr. Appel had spoken to his wife like that. Mrs.
Whatch think I climbed all these blasted stairs for with my weak heart? Gimme another!" Mr. Carmyle gave him another. "'S a bad business," moaned Uncle Donald, having gone through the movements once more. "Shocking bad business. If your poor father were alive, whatch think he'd say to your tearing across the world after this girl? I'll tell you what he'd say.
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