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Updated: June 21, 2025
Job twisted and lolloped about, as if he was looking out for some opening to bolt through; but all egress was shut up. "Why, please your honour," the eloquent blood mantling in his honest sunburnt cheeks; while from my heart I pitied the poor fellow, for he was absolutely broiling in his bashfulness "He seared me onon why, please your honour, he seared me on with a redhot iron!"
The little group broke up. Blob came through them, calm as the moon, and as unconscious. "Who is the lad?" whispered Nelson, as the boy lolloped up in laceless boots, hands deep in his waistband. "One of the garrison," replied the Parson. "Simple Sussex with the face of a cherub and the soul of a stoat." "Ah," said Nelson, "another of the heroes." He took a step towards the advancing boy.
"He was plump as a little pig. They'd be kind to him because he wasn't right superstition, you see. Kept him to bring em luck, probably. A kind of idol." The boy in the blue jersey was coming up the hill towards them, slobbering at the mouth. His hands were in his pockets, and he lolloped along on his toes. "Oi druv her back," he announced with complacent cunning.
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