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Updated: May 18, 2025
"Bejimbers!" answered Malachi, "the old man did his best to spoil my legs, but I feel like trying." Up at Steens the young widow spent the three days before the funeral in a flutter of the nerves. For reasons of her own she stood in fear of her stepson, and felt herself in hourly desperate need of a male champion. Yet she had pluck as well as a head on her shoulders.
"Bejimbers, Hancock," says Treleaven, standing up and looking uneasy, "you carry it far, I must say!" "Far? A jolly good joke, I should call it," answers Hancock, making bold to cross his legs again. And with that there comes a voice crying pillaloo in the passage outside; and, without so much as a knock, a woman runs in with a face like a sheet Sam Hockaday's wife, from the "Sailor's Return."
"There's nothing for it but pluck," said Mr. Newte. "We must make a new Poor Rate. They've been asking a new one for years; and, bejimbers! I hope they'll like the one they get." The old Squire stroked his chin. "That's a bit too dangerous, Newte." "Where's the danger? Churchwardens and Overseers, we can count on every man." "The parish will appeal, as sure as a gun.
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