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A strong cord tied tight round his neck would keep that precious mixtur, traitor's blood, all in as close as if his mouth was corked, wired, and white-leaded, like a champagne bottle.
Ah, Avice! folks as goes a-sight-seeing mun expect to find things of a mixtur' when they gets home." "A very pleasant mixture, Uncle," said Avice. "Pray you of your blessing, holy Father." Father Thomas gave it, and Bertha, stooping down, kissed Dan on his broad wrinkled forehead. "Did thou get a penny?" asked Dan. "I got two!" cried Bertha, triumphantly. "And Aunt Avice got one. Did you, Father?"
So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given by himself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling "the mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr.
Thousands of beautiful flowers decked the green sward, and numbers of little birds hopped about among them. "Now, lads," said Joe Blunt, reining up, "our troubles begin to-day." "Our troubles! our joys, you mean!" exclaimed Dick Varley. "P'raps I don't mean nothin' o' the sort," retorted Joe. "Man wos never intended to swaller his joys without a strong mixtur' o' troubles.
A strong cord tied tight round his neck would keep that precious mixtur, traitor's blood, all in as close as if his mouth was corked, wired, and white-leaded, like a champagne bottle.
I've heard 't up to Boston, where he got his manifest, they thought everything of him. He's smart enough, but he's lazy, and he always was lazy, and harder'n a nut. He's a curious mixtur'. 'N' I guess he's been on the lookout for somethin' of this kind ever sence he begun practising among the summer boarders. Guess he's had an eye out."
Thousands of beautiful flowers decked the greensward, and numbers of little birds hopped about among them. "Now, lads," said Joe Blunt, reining up, "our troubles begin to-day." "Our troubles? our joys, you mean!" exclaimed Dick Varley. "P'r'aps I don't mean nothin' o' the sort," retorted Joe. "Man wos never intended to swaller his joys without a strong mixtur' o' troubles.
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