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"Any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "It's probable he wull have been dead aboot three hours." "About that time, I should say," observes a dark young man on the other side of the bed. "Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?" inquires the first. The dark young man says yes. "Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other, "for I'm nae gude here!"
Dod: it's a depairture in poachin'." And as the sight of Mr. Byles burst on his view, surrounded by trustful birds, and the two Dowbiggins trying very feebly to drop the net on a specially venturesome one, the head keeper almost lost the power of speech. "Dinna let us interrupt you," and Mr.
"You have brought paper and ink, I see." "Ay, but, man, ye mauna be speakin' o' takin' yer depairture yet. This draftin' o' yer wull is only a precaution." "Quite right, lad. I mean it only as a precaution," returned Hardy, in a cheerful tone. "But you seem to have caught a cold eh? What makes you cough and clear your throat so?" "A cauld! I wush it was only a cauld!
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