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Dat's goot, ain't it? Zum bunaner." But it could not be eaten. Decayed, dirty, all but rotting, the stomach turned from the refuse, nauseated. "No, no," cried Hilda, "that's not good. I can't eat it. Oh, Mammy, please gif me those bread'n milk." By now the guests of Mrs. Gerard had come to the entrees Londonderry pheasants, escallops of duck, and rissolettes a la pompadour.
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