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Updated: May 23, 2025
Thaa can kiss her, Matt; but that's all. Matt kissed his wife, and baptized her with his warm tears. 'And hesn't thaa getten a word for th' child, Matt? cried old Deborah, who sat with a pulpy form upon her knees before the fire. 'It's thy lad and no mistak'; it favours no one but thisel. Wept which she had never done since her girlhood's days.
"Shaf! he hesn't a bit of nater intil him, nowther back nor end. He's now't but riffraff," said Matthew. Ralph Ray's peril and escape were incidents too unimportant to break the spell of the accident to the body of his father. Robbie Anderson turned in late in the evening. "Here's a sorry home coming," he said as he entered. It was easy to see that Robbie was profoundly agitated.
"Ought hesn't been t' fashion since iver I remember; and t' young people o' these days hev crossed out Fifth Commandment happen that's t' reason there is so few men blessed wi' the green old age that I asked for wi' the keeping o' it." The squire pondered this advice all day, keeping apart from his family, and really suffering very keenly. But toward evening he sent for his son.
"Well, sir, a man's mind can grow, just as his body grows." "I know that but it can grow in a wrong direction as easily as in a right one. Now I must attend to my secretary; he sent me word that there was a large mail waiting." "I'll warrant it. Mr. Henry hesn't been near the mill since Friday morning," and with these words the overseer lifted his books and records and left the room.
I'll be bun those hens o' Whittam's hes been rootin' up thi flaars in th' garden. 'Nowe, lad thaa'rt mista'en Whittam's hens hesn't bin i' th' garden sin' thaa towd him abaat 'em last. 'Then mi mother's bin botherin' thee agen, said Matt, in a sharp tone, as though he had at last hit upon the secret of his wife's sorrow.
Arriving at the cottage, Enoch told his wife how he had given Mr. Penrose the history of his old flute, whereupon the good woman wept and said: 'Him and me, Mr. Penrose, has many a time supped sorrow, but th' owd flute has awlus sweetened aar cup, hesn't it, Enoch? 'Yi, lass, it awlus hes. That night, before Mr.
Why, there's Barzillay Smith, over to Peat's Corner, has kerried a potato in his pocket for five years, not the same potato, y' know; changes 'em when they begin to sprout, and he hesn't hed a touch o' rheumatism all that time. Not a touch! tol' me so himself." "Had he ever hed it before?" asked Dame Hartley. "I d'no as he hed," said Mr. Slocum, "But his father hed; an' his granf'ther before him.
You don't need to fear that." "Oh, well," said she, slowly wiping her moist forehead, and looking relieved," but yo know, aw was very much put about o'er th' ill-natur't talk as somebody set eawt." "Take no notice of them," said my friend; "take no notice. I meet with such things every day." "Well," continued she," yo know heaw we're situated. We were nine months an' hesn't a stroke o' wark.
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