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Updated: May 3, 2025
Spicture." "There, now, Dolly!" said Aunt M'riar. "Why don't you tell clear, a bit at a time, and get yourself understood? Granny Marrowbone's the new name, my lady, she's christened her doll, Dolly. So she should be known apart, Dolly being, as you might say, Dolly herself.
Prichard, perceiving that he was really distressed, hastened to set his mind at ease. Of course he couldn't be her grandson, if he was already Mrs. Marrowbone's. She overlooked or ignored the possible compromise offered by the fact that two grandmothers are the common lot of all mankind. But it would be unjust this was clear to her that Dave should suffer in any way from her jealous disposition.
"Yorse I does know!" cried he, loud enough to lay himself open to remonstrance. He continued under due restraint: "I'm going to be old Mrs. Marrowbone's grangson." He then remembered that the treaty was conditional, and added a proviso: "So long as I'm a good boy!" "Won't you be my grandson, too, Davy darling?" said old Mrs. Prichard.
I think I like Picture best." Aunt M'riar, not to be out of the conversation, took a formal exception to Uncle Mo's remark: "The ladies they know how old Old Mrs. Marrable in the country is, without your telling of 'em, Mo." "Right you are, M'riar! But they don't know nothing about old Mrs. Prichard." Uncle Mo had spoken at a guess of Mrs. Marrowbone's age, of which he knew nothing.
"Granny Marrowbone's box on the chimley-piece is got glast you can see in, and she's got two horses in a wagging, and the wheels goes round and round and round like a clock, and there was her daddy stood at the window and there was saskses was took up froo a hole, and come back froo a hole, and there was Muggeridge that see to loading up the cart, and there was her and her sister bofe alike of one size, and there was the water run over...." Here Dave flagged a little after so much eloquence, and no wonder.
It was merely his doubt whether such an arrangement would be permissible under canon law. It was bigamy, however much you chose to prevaricate. The old lady's appealing voice racked Dave's feelings. "I carn't!" he exclaimed, harrowed. "I've spromussed to be Mrs. Marrowbone's grangson I have." And thereupon old Mrs.
Said the old lady to Dave, when the bull was disposed of: "Was Mr. Marrowbone the Smith old Mrs. Marrowbone's grandson?" Dave shook his head rather solemnly and regretfully. It is always pleasanter to say yes than no; but in this case Truth was compulsory. "He wasn't anyfink of Granny Marrowbone's. No, he wasn't!" said he, and continued shaking his head to rub the fact in.
There was no hesitation in the answer to this. It was "that sort"; that is, the colour of Pussy's stomach, unequivocal white. And which did Dave like best an unfair question which deserved and got a Parliamentary answer. "All free," said Dave. But this was merely colour of hair, a superficial distinction. How about Granny Marrowbone's nose.
Marrowbone's hair was the only point he could seize on. A cat, asleep on the hearthrug, supplied a standard of comparison. "Granny Marrowbone's head's the colour of this," said Dave, with decision, selecting a pale grey stripe. And Widow Thrale's was like that one with a deeper tone of brown, with scarcely any perceptible grey. "And which on Pussy is most like mine, Dave?" said Mrs. Prichard.
"Now you're making of it up, Dave," said Aunt M'riar. "You be a good little boy, and say Mr. Marrowbone the Smith was old Mrs. Marrowbone's grandson. Because you know he was now don't you, Davy? You tell Mrs. Prichard he was old Mrs. Marrowbone's grandson!" Dave, however, shook his head obdurately. No concession! "Perhaps he was her son," said Mrs. Prichard.
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