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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Surely," said Hugo, "it's your bed-time?" "No," little Fay answered, and the letters were never formed that could express the finality of that "no," "Med will fesh me when it's time. I've come to play wis loo. Det up, Daddie; loo can't play p'oply lying zere." "Oh, yes, I can," Hugo protested eagerly. "You bring all your nice toys one by one and show them to me."
"You're not to do that," he said. "I can't stand it. Go and pick up those other things and show them to me." "Loo can see zem from here." "Not what's in the box," he suggested diplomatically. "I'm tah'ed too," she said, suddenly sitting down on the floor. "You fesh 'em." "Will you play with them if I do?" She shook her head. "Not if loo're closs, and lude and naughty and ... stupid."
There's fesh and there's fowl or, maybe, ye'll be for the sheep's head singit, when they've done with it at the tabble dot?" There was but one way of getting rid of him: "Order what you like," Anne said, "and leave the room." Mr. Bishopriggs highly approved of the first half of the sentence, and totally overlooked the second.
She was a pretty little thing, with a round fair face tanned by the sun, brown hair and soft dark eyes. She was bare-headed, bare-footed and bare-armed, but she was otherwise smartly dressed, and she held in her hand an enormous flounder, apparently about half as heavy as herself. "Will ye hef the fesh, Miss Sheila?" said the small Ailasa, holding out the flounder, but looking down all the same.
He took off another cover, and shook his head in solemn doubt. "Here's the green meat. I doot green meat's windy diet for a man at my time o' life!" He put the cover on again, and tried the next dish. "The fesh? What the de'il does the woman fry the trout for? Boil it next time, ye betch, wi' a pinch o' saut and a spunefu' o' vinegar."
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