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And her eyes and her hair and all? Why, Bobby, if I'd ever catch myself daring to think about marrying that girl I'd take myself by the Adam's apple and give myself the damnedest choking that ever turned a mutt's map purple."
You want to make him feel like a mutt; and a mutt's the worst kind of a fool. You've got one against me." She looked before her between narrowed lids and faintly smiled the most disagreeable smile she was capable of. And yet for some too extraordinary reason he went on. But she had seen men go on before this when all the odds were against them. Sometimes their madness took them this way.
"Well, my names are Geoffrey, Guy, Eustace, Hughson-and er a few others, but these will do to go on with, perhaps?" "Well, I guess yes!" "You can take your choice." "Well, Guy won't do no siree ye see every mutt's a guy down our way so I guess we'll make it Geoff. But, say, if you ain't weak on the think-machinery, why d' ye keep a guy like His Whiskers hanging around?"
Say, is that your mutt's automobile sort of following along in our wake?" "I don't know, for I don't want to look back," said Win. Let's hurry and take a Fifty-Ninth Street car!" By day, in the shop, Win could laugh when she thought of the Columbus Avenue house where she and Sadie "hung out." But at night, in her room, trying desperately to sleep, she could not even smile.
"He's out to get you, Dot and this time I'm not just going to warm him up and scare him away, as I did last time. This time that misguided mutt's going to get frizzled right.... I can't locate him with this small telescope, Mart. Line him up in the big one and give me the word, will you?" "I see him, Dick, but it is not DuQuesne's ship.
I am not content with such folly. I think the poor mutt's loony. Je me fiche de ce type infect. C'est idiot de faire comme ça l'oiseau.... Allez-vous-en, louffier.... Tell the boob to go away. He is mad as some March hatters." I must say I thought he was making out a jolly good case, and evidently Aunt Dahlia felt the same. She laid a quivering hand on his shoulder.
"I'se not dat kind of mug, boss," protested the Bowery boy. "I ain't got no use fer goils. It's a mutt's game." This was rank heresy. Jimmy laid down the razor from motives of prudence, and proceeded to lighten Spike's reprehensible darkness. "Spike, you're an ass," he said. "You don't know anything about it.
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