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Liston may be born where he pleases, Sir; but I will not be born at Lup Lupton Magna for anybody's pleasure, Sir. My son and I have looked over the great map of Kent together, and we can find no such place as you would palm upon us, Sir, palm upon us, I say. Neither Magna nor Parva, as my son says; and he knows Latin, Sir, Latin.
And Foma looked now at one, now at another, and recalled what he knew about them. There was Lup Reznikov; he had begun his career as a brothel-keeper, and had become rich all of a sudden. They said he had strangled one of his guests, a rich Siberian. Zubov's business in his youth had been to purchase thread from the peasants. He had failed twice.
And then the devil will fleece you, ha, ha! It is good to be a rascal with a pious face like yours! Whom did you kill then, Lup?" Foma spoke, interrupting his speech with loud, malevolent laughter, and saw that his words were producing an impression on these people.
Exclamations of protest were heard, but these were brief, not loud, and each time Foma shouted some one's name, all became silent, listening, casting furtive, malicious glances in the direction of their accused comrade. Bobrov laughed perplexedly, but his small eyes bored into Foma as gimlets. And Lup Reznikov, waving his hands, hopped about awkwardly and, short of breath, said: "Be my witnesses.
Bobrov! why did you lie about that mistress of yours, saying that she had robbed you, and then send her to prison? If you had grown tired of her, you might have given her over to your son. Anyway he has started an intrigue with that other mistress of yours. Didn't you know it? Eh, you fat pig, ha, ha! And you, Lup, open again a brothel, and fleece your guests there as before.
If you write my life true, Sir, you must set down, that I, Joseph Munden, comedian, came into the world upon Allhallows Day, Anno Domini 1759, 1759; no sooner nor later, Sir: and I saw the first light the first light, remember, Sir at Stoke Pogis, Stoke Pogis, comitatu Bucks, and not at Lup Lup Magna, which I believe to be no better than moonshine, moonshine; do you mark me, Sir?
The massive "Ilya Murometz," heaving a mighty sigh, emitted a thick column of white steam toward the side of the landing-bridge, and started upstream easily, like a swan. "How it started off," enthusiastically exclaimed commercial counsellor Lup Grigoryev Reznikov, a tall, thin, good-looking man. "Without a quiver! Like a lady in the dance!" "Half speed!"
They were all crowded on the bow of the steamer, and little by little, yielding to Kononov's requests, moved towards the stern covered with sailcloth, where stood tables spread with lunch. Lup Reznikov walked arm in arm with Yakov Mayakin, and, bending over to his ear, whispered something to him, while the latter listened and smiled.
Moran and Wilbur, wearied of watching, had turned in again, when they were startled to wakefulness by the creak of oarlocks and the sound of a boat grounding in the sand. The coolies the deserters from the "Bertha Millner" were there. Charlie came forward. "Ge' lup! Ge' lup!" he said. "Junk all smash! Kai-gingh come ashore. I tink him want catch um schooner." "What smashed the junk?
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