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Updated: July 23, 2025
Why do you sit there staring at me, you little demon? Why don't you say something to encourage me, you little wretch?" "Go on!" said Cap, without removing her eyes. "Cap, I was a jealous passionate Demmy, confession isn't in my line. A diabolical villain made me believe that my poor little wife wasn't good!" "There! I knew you'd lay it on somebody else. Men always do that," said Cap, to herself.
It was the will of Major Warfield that they should have their full satisfaction out of their seven days' carnival. He usually gave a dinner party on Christmas day, after which his people were free until the third of January. "Demmy, mum!" he would say to Mrs. Condiment, "they wait on us fifty-one weeks in the year, and it's hard if we can't wait on ourselves the fifty-second!"
The old man, without raising his head, held out one hand to his nephew, saying in a voice still trembling with emotion: "Herbert, I wronged you; forgive me." Herbert took and pressed that rugged and hairy old hand to his lips, and said: "Uncle, I do not in the least know what is the cause of your present emotion, but " "Emotion! Demmy, sir, what do you mean by emotion?
Goodwin. "Demmy, sir, I beg you pardon, parson, I won't take patience! You don't know! Hang it, man, at last they got me to give up one-half of my own blessed bed to his precious reverence the best half which the fellow always took right out of the middle, leaving me to sleep on both sides of him, if I could!
"I mean you shall not go at all, demmy!" "I'd like to know who'll prevent me," said Cap. "I will, Miss Vixen! Demmy, I'll not be set at naught by a beggar! Mrs. Condiment, leave the room, mum, and don't be sitting there listening to every word I have to say to my ward. Wool, be off with yourself, sir; what do you stand there gaping and staring for?
It was the will of Major Warfield that they should have their full satisfaction out of their seven days' carnival. He usually gave a dinner party on Christmas day, after which his people were free until the third of January. "Demmy, mum!" he would say to Mrs. Condiment, "they wait on us fifty-one weeks in the year, and it's hard if we can't wait on ourselves the fifty-second!"
Whaur's the sense of a jaiket that'll no button upon you, if it should come to be weet? What do ye ca' thir things? Demmy brokens, d'ye say? They'll be brokens wi' a vengeance or ye can win back! Weel, I have naething to do wi' it it's no good taste." Clem, whose purse had thus metamorphosed his sister, and who was not insensible to the advertisement, had come to the rescue with a "Hoot, woman!
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