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The negs time you call, Mistoo Itchlin, you muz not be too much aztonizh to fine me gone from yeh. Yesseh. He's got to haugment me ad the en' of that month, an' we 'ave to-day the fifteenth Mawch. Do you smoke, Mistoo Itchlin?" He extended a package of cigarettes. Richling accepted one. "I smoke lawgely in that weatheh," striking a match on his thigh. "I feel ve'y sultwy to-day.
"Ah, phooh!" he said, indicating the end of his speech by dropping the stump of his cigarette into the sand on the floor and softly spitting upon it, "le Shylock de la rue Carondelet!" and then in English, not to lose the admiration of the Irish waiter: "He don't want to haugment me! I din hass 'im, because the 'lection. But you juz wait till dat firce of Jannawerry!"
But appopo of that news, I might infawm you some intelligens consunning myseff." "Good!" exclaimed Richling. "For it's good news, isn't it?" "Yesseh, as you may say, yes. Faw in fact, Mistoo Itchlin, I 'ave ass Dr. Seveeah to haugment me." "Hurrah!" cried Richling.
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