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So I call my ailment corn-fever, for it cooms wi' t' corn-harvest, and eh, deary me! it catches me i' t' heart. But I'll say nae mair aboot it. Reach me ower yon breeches; I mun get on wi' my wark, and t' button-holes is bad for thy een, lass. Thoo'll be wantin' a bit o' brass for Woodhouse Feast, an' there's noan sae mich o' my Lloyd George money left i' t' stockin' sin thoo went to Blackpool.
It's t' corn-fever that's wrang wi' me." "Corn-fever! What next, I'd like to know! You catch a new ailment ivery day. One would think we kept a nurse i' t' house to do nowt but look after you." "A nuss would hardlins be able to cure my corn-fever, I's thinkin'. I've heerd tell about t' hay-fever that bettermy bodies gets when t' hay-harvest's on. It's a kind o' cowd that catches 'em i' t' throat.
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