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There was a little two-wheeled cart inscribed with the name of Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden, with a smashed wheel and an abandoned tin trunk; there was a straw hat trampled into the now hardened mud, and at the top of West Hill a lot of blood-stained glass about the overturned water trough. My movements were languid, my plans of the vaguest.
Lobb was a weak, violent, and ambitious man. He had gone such lengths in opposition to the government, that he had been by name proscribed in several proclamations. He now made his peace, and went as far in servility as he had ever done in faction. He joined the Jesuitical cabal, and eagerly recommended measures from which the wisest and most honest Roman Catholics recoiled.
"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.
He was not only set at liberty, but was informed that, if he chose to reside in London, he might do so without fearing that the Five Mile Act would be enforced against him. The government probably hoped that the recollection of past sufferings and the sense of present ease would produce the same effect on him as on Rosewell and Lobb. The hope was disappointed.
At length a pardon was granted; but Rosewell remained bound under heavy recognisances to good behaviour during life, and to periodical appearance in the Court of King's Bench. His recognisances were now discharged by the royal command; and in this way his services were secured. The business of gaining the Independents was principally intrusted to one of their ministers named Stephen Lobb.
'Twouldn' be fair would it? to start off that we'd got a surprise for 'im, an' would 'e guess?" "He'll find out, fast enough, when he strikes a light," said the Fat Lady between resigned despair and professional pride. "But my name's Mrs. Lobb, when you introjuice him." "Widow?" "I don't know why you should suppose it."
"I'm a maiden lady," she confessed, "and I'll conceal it no longer, when, God knows, I may be lyin' here punished for my vanity. . . . But 'twasn't all vanity, neither: it sounded more comfortable. If it had been vanity, I'd ha' chosen Montmorency or St. Clair not Lobb.
There's one joist pinnin' my left shoulder, and my leg's jammed under another; and stir I cannot." Sam lit another match. "I was fearin' " he began, but broke off. "If you could manage, ma'am, to draw up your knee an inch or so or if you wouldn' mind my takin' a pull " "Not at all," said Mrs. Lobb. "I'm used to bein' pinched." Sam gripped the knee-pan firmly, and hauled. "O-ow!" cried Mrs. Lobb.
"Well now, if you've finished your supper, we'll say our prayers and get to sleep." "Prayers?" queried Tilda. As a rule, when anything happened outside her experience she sat quiet and let it happen, reserving criticism. But, chancing to look up, she had seen the boy wince at the word. Mrs. Lobb, less observant, had taken down a Bible from the shelf above her. She opened it and read
Gavel has sent around twice to say that if it's a case of 'Love me, love my dog, him and me'll have to break contracts." "Leadin' this sort o' life don't suit 'im," said Tilda. "No," Mrs. Lobb agreed; "he's drunk as a lord again, and his temper something awful." Tilda stared. "I meant the dog," she explained.
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