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Rawlins stole away without speaking and we three were left alone to stare in mute desire at the tea things. A bee was buzzing noisily about the honey jar. It was The Seraph who spoke at last, his hands clasped across his stomach. "Bishop," he said, politely, but firmly. "I would yike a little nushment." "Bless me!" cried the Bishop. "Wherever are my manners?"
I interrupted, thoughtlessly, at last. "Who do?" "The lady. When she was tight." "So that is where your thoughts were," said Mrs. Handsomebody, angrily, "nice speculations indeed, for a little boy!" "I should yike a little nushment, please," interrupted The Seraph in his turn. "Not nourishment, but punishment is what you will get, young man," replied our governess, tartly.
"The Bishop brought him wight here in the pony twap," added The Seraph, "and we'd all yike a little nushment, please." Mary Ellen, in spite of herself, was half convinced. Granfa's blue eyes were so candid; there was an air of dignity about his snow-white locks and beard, that disarmed hostility.
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