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"Is that good or bad?" inquired Mrs. Luella Mainprice Jopp. A sort of desperate hope gleamed in the eye of the other competitor in the final. He swung with renewed vigour. His ball sang through the air, and lay within chip-shot distance of the green. "At the very least," said Mrs. Agnes Parsons Jopp, "I hope, Vincent, that you are wearing flannel next your skin."
"Hadst thou come a moment sooner, them wouldst have seen me lay my ball dead aye, dead as mutton, with the sweetest little half-mashie-niblick chip-shot ever seen outside the sacred domain of S'nandrew, on whom" he bared his head reverently "be peace! In one under bogey did I do the hole yea, and that despite the fact that, slicing my drive, I became ensnared in yonder undergrowth."
Then he leaned out of the centre window in such a manner as completely to screen the interior of the cab from public view. "Thank you so much," murmured a voice behind him. It seemed to come from the floor. "Not at all," said George, trying a sort of vocal chip-shot out of the corner of his mouth, designed to lift his voice backwards and lay it dead inside the cab.
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