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Updated: May 19, 2025
There is no one there now, so my imparted information relates, with the exception of her ladyship Wicketts, a Miss Fosby and a hired musician from the cells of the professional caterer, named Gigg." Walden's eyes twinkled. He was always very indulgent to Mr. Netlips, and rather encouraged him than otherwise in his own special flow of language. "Really!" he said "And so they are all gone!
If your Squire stays away from church, he may be called a heathen with propriety, though a Liberal. And why? Because he makes public exposure of himself as a heathen negative! He is bound to keep up the church factor in the community. Otherwise he runs straight aground on Cohesion." This oratorical outburst on the part of Mr. Netlips was listened to with respectful awe and admiration.
Netlips, the grocer, driving himself solemnly ever to Riversford one day, came back with a board 'a banner with a strange device' painted in blue letters on a white ground, which said: PETROL STORED HERE. This startling announcement became a marvel and a fascination to the eyes of the villagers, every one of them coming out of their houses to look at it, directly it was displayed.
Buggins had overturned two empty pewter-mugs on his counter. "No gossiping o' Passon Walden allowed 'ere," he said, "Not while I'm master o' this public!" "Leeze majestas," proclaimed Mr. Netlips, impressively "You're right, Buggins you're quite right! Leeze majestas would be entirely indigenous entirely so!" An awkward pause ensued.
Netlips with a gracious bend of his fat neck "And it is not to be regretted by the profane that you should rotate with the world, provided you are seen in strict adhesion to the pulpit on the acceptable seventh day. Otherwise, it is but natural that you should preamble for health's sake. You have been looking poorly, Mr. Walden sir, of late; I trust you will beneficially profit by change."
Netlips' shop, however, was just one of those slight indications which showed the vague change that had crept over the erstwhile tranquil atmosphere of St. Rest. Among other signs and tokens of internal disquiet was the increasing pomposity of the village post-mistress, Mrs. Tapple. Mrs.
Good-night!" Still puckering his brow into lines of mysterious suggestiveness, the learned Netlips went his way, Roger Buggins gazing after him admiringly. "That man's reg'lar lost down 'ere," he observed "He oughter ha' been in Parliament." "Ah, so he ought!" agreed Dan Ridley "Where's there's fog he'd a made it foggier, and where's there's no understandin' he'd a made it less understandable.
Netlips shook his head and frowned darkly, with the air of one who could unveil a great mystery if he chose. "Compulsion is a legal community," he said "And while powerless to bring affluence to the Christian conscience, it culminates in the citizenship of the heathen. Miss Vancourt, as her father's daughter, should be represented by the baptized spirit, and not by the afflatus of the ungenerate!
Bainton," said a stout, oily-looking personage, named Netlips, the grocer and 'general store' dealer of the village, a man who was renowned in the district for the profundity and point of his observations at electoral meetings, and for the entirely original manner in which he 'used' the English language; "Public worship is a necessary evil. It is a factor in vulgar civilisations.
Netlips, with a grandiose manner, implying that even if it had cost millions he would have been equal to 'stocking' it "But the traveling aristocrat does not interrogate the lucrative matter." "Don't he?" and Bainton scratched his head ruminatively. "I s'pose you knows what you means, Mr. Netlips, an' you gen'ally means a lot.
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