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Updated: May 17, 2025
"And snug. . . . Can yer risk striking a match? Fact is, we got a lady friend 'ere, an' she wants yer 'elp badly." Sam struck a sulphur match. "Good Lord!" he breathed, staring across the blue flame, and still as he stared his eyes grew larger and rounder. "'Er name's Lobb," explained Tilda. "I oughter a-told yer." "'Ow did it 'appen?" asked Sam in an awed voice. "Igsplosion," said the Fat Lady.
The fiery shower died out, was extinct. Across the party hedge the boy Palmerston was heard inquiring if that was the way the angels behaved in heaven. "Moderately so, but without the accompanyin' igsplosion. That is, so far as we are permitted to guess. . . . And highly creditable to them," it wound up, with sudden asperity, "considering the things they sometimes have to look down on!"
"Igsplosion or no igsplosion," replied the Fat Lady incontestably, "'ere I h'am." "Sure yer can't move?" Tilda coaxed. At this the Fat Lady showed some irritation. "I ought to know what I'm capable of by this time. . . . If you could run along and fetch somebody with a tackle and pulley now " "I got a friend comin' presently.
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