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Updated: June 9, 2025
Come here, child, and let me iron out yer plaits while the iron's good an' hot." This painful operation was performed only on state occasions; each little Wiggs laid her head on the ironing-board, a willing sacrifice on the altar of vanity, while Mrs. Wiggs carefully ironed out five plaits on each head.
"You've seen it before, Tredgold," he said, shortly. "It's a fine old building," said the other. "Binchester ought to be proud of it. Why, here we are at Captain Bowers's!" "The house has been next to the church for a couple o' hundred years," retorted his friend. "Let's go in," said Mr. Tredgold. "Strike while the iron's hot. At any rate," he concluded, as Mr.
"Let's drive out to-day in time for dinner, and send a telegram at once. Nothing like striking while the iron's hot. Papa Geordie, tell the waiter to bring a blank, and we'll concoct a message between us. Is that all right for you, Mother?" Mrs. Harley looked rather like a woman being asked to run a quarter of a mile to catch a train, but she gave a little laugh and said, "Yes, dear.
And to think o' your knowing no better, Molly, and been here a-going i' nine months, and not for want o' talking to, neither and what are you stanning there for, like a jack as is run down, instead o' getting your wheel out? You're a rare un for sitting down to your work a little while after it's time to put by." "Munny, my iron's twite told; pease put it down to warm."
"Will you excuse me?" "Certainly." He reads, he becomes red; he rereads, and he gets scarlet. It was Raoul's brilliant telegram from Dijon: "Dear father, I shall not go. Most extraordinary meeting. Your Number Three yes, your Number Three in the train with her mother, and I wouldn't see her. Ah! if I had known. Strike while the iron's hot; I'm striking it, strike it too.
The artist was reasserting the old superiority over him which the visitor had found so irritating, and it was Iron's instinct to meet this by an air of bluster. "Very well," Arthur said. "We may then consider what you are pleased to call our account as closed." He walked forward deliberately and laid the paper he held on the heap of glowing coals in the grate.
First of all, the Devil begged so prettily to be let out of the chair, and afterwards, waxing wroth, he began to threaten and scold; but the Smith kept on, all the while excusing himself, and saying it was all the iron's fault, it was so plaguy hard, and telling the Devil he was not so badly off to have to sit quietly in an easy chair, and that he would let him out to the minute when the four years were over.
In another twenty years, sir, there won't be such a thing as a wooden table in the country, unless with some poor person that can't afford to refurnish. Believe me, sir, iron's the thing now-a-days." "And indian-rubber," said Dockwrath. "Yes; indian-rubber's wonderful too. Are you in that line, sir?" "Well; no; not exactly." "It's not like iron, sir.
"I'll give you an order to sell out at once, and I'll fill up this application for three hundred shares why not three hundred? I may as well go as many as you do. If it's really such a good thing as you say, why shouldn't I profit by it? Send this to Klink to-morrow early; strike while the iron's hot, and get the thing finished." Nevitt looked at the paper with an attentive eye.
"At once?" "The wan minute for sthriking is whin the iron's hot, Misther North." The general manager put aside the thick file of papers he had been examining when MacMorrogh entered, and began to set his desk in order. "I have been thinking I might make it convenient to go with you. I presume you have no objection to going as my guest in the Naught-Seven?"
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