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Updated: June 6, 2025
Others again for Butt or Stout Beer will, when they find it works up towards a thick Yeast, mix it once and beat it in again with the Hand-bowl or Jett; and when it has work'd up a second time in such a manner, they put it into the Vessel with the Yeast on the Top and the Sediments at Bottom, taking particular Care to have some more in a Tub near the Cask to fill it up as it works over, and when it has done working, leave it with a thick Head of Yeast on to preserve it.
Even the nearest drug store, wary of that row of the transient hat-on-the-peg, off-the-peg, would deliver to No. 28 a mustard plaster or a deck of cards and charge without question. To the Jett Fish Company, "Steamers, Hotels, and Restaurants Supplied If It Swims We Have It," Mrs. Plush paid her bill quarterly only, then Mr. Jett deducting the sum delicately from his board.
"I know a woman who made it her business to read all the poetry books she could lay hands on, and went to all the bandstand concerts in the Park the whole time, and now her daughter sings in the choir out in Saginaw, Michigan." "I know some believe in that," said Mrs. Jett, trying to force a smile through her pallor. "I must try it." But the infinitesimal stitching kept her so busy.
A man-sized fish with its mouth jerked open to the shape of a gasp and the fillip still through its enormous body, as if its flanks were uncomfortably dry. A fish! With a shriek that tore a jagged rent through the darkness Mrs. Jett began pounding at the slippery flanks, her hands sliding off its shininess. "Out! Out! Henry, where are you? Help me! O God, don't let him get me.
Jett that queer juvenescence that sometimes comes to men and women in middle life. The round-shouldered, long-cheeked girl had matured gingerly to rather sparse womanhood that now at forty relented back to a fulsome thirty. Perhaps it was the tint of light out in her face, perhaps the splendor of the vision; but at any rate, in those precious months to come, Mrs.
Jett loved to pinch together with thumb and forefinger. "Cover her up quick, Em, it's chilly this morning." Quite without precedent, Jeanette puckered up to cry, holding herself rigidly to Mr. Jett's dressing gown. "Why, Jeanette baby, don't you want to go to Aunty Em?" "No! No! No!" Trying to ingratiate herself back into Mr. Jett's arms. "Baby, you'll take cold. Come under covers with Aunty Em?"
The jett of the character is, this Nabob, with many affected airs and constant aims at gentility, is still but a silly fellow, unexpectedly come into the possession of immense riches, and therefore, of course, paid much court to by a society of natural philosophers, Quakers, and I do not know who besides.
It is a sumptuous book, supposed to be a present from the Emperor Ferdinand to the King. How did it come here? Then, more by luck than anything else, I find mention of it in the diary of Thomas Hearne, the Oxford antiquary; his friend Thomas Jett, F.R.S., owned it and told him about it in 1722: he had been offered £100 a volume for it; it was his by purchase from one Mr. Stebbing.
On one side a beautiful jett extended for eighteen feet, supported by three tall pillars. On the first floor were the dining room, the children's dining room, Col. Carter's study, and a ball room thirty feet long, while the second story contained four bed rooms, two of which were reserved for guests. At equal distances from each corner of the mansion were four other buildings of considerable size.
Jett usually carried away with her from the table. Along about ten o'clock she was apt to feel faint rather than hungry. "Gone," she called it. "Feeling a little gone." Not that there was a suggestion of frailty about Mrs. Jett. Anything but that.
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