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Updated: May 13, 2025
But that little paunchy Arbroath's worse than a whole flock o' magpies comin' together, an' 'e's actin' like a pestilence in keepin' decent folk away from their own Church. 'Owsomever, Twitt reads prayers every Sunday mornin', an' t'other day Mr. Reay came in an' 'eerd 'im. An' Mr.
There's a suthin' in a man wot's real devil-like when it gits the uppermost of 'im an' 'e's that crafty born that I've known 'im to be singin' hymns one hour an' drinkin' 'isself silly the next. 'Owsomever, Mister Reay seems a decent chap, forbye 'e do give 'is time to writin' which don't appear to make 'is pot boil " "Ah, but he will be famous!" interrupted Mary exultantly. "I know he will!"
'twould a' been a real Gospel mercy! an' 'ow 'twas all about Miss Vancourt, till Mr. Hadderley 'e come up an throwed 'im over in the road on 'is back which makes me think all the better o' that young man, 'owsomever, I never took to 'im afore.
"I'm so sorry!" said Mary, sweetly "But as long as the spider doesn't bring you any ill-luck, Mrs. Twitt, I don't mind for myself I don't, really!" Mrs. Twitt emitted an odd sound, much like the grunt of a small and discontented pig. "It's a reckless foot as don't mind precipeges," she remarked, solemnly "'Owsomever, I've given ye fair warnin'. An' 'ow's yer father's friend?"
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