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Updated: July 22, 2025
The old woman had made a feint to pull her sleeves down over her plump black arms and then, begrudging the delay, had grasped his outstretched hand, her face in a broad grin. "Yes, sah, dat's me. Clar' to goodness, Marse George, I's glad ter git ye home. Lawd-a-massy, see dem ducks! Purty fat, ain't dey, sah? My! dat pair's jes' a-bustin'! G'long you fool nigger an' let me hab 'em!
You know that ownership is not all of life nor the better half of it, and it is quite as good for you to give the fact due recognition by gardening early in life as it was for Adam and Eve. It is better, for you can do so in a much more fortunate manner, having tools and the first pair's warning example.
Really, the only fact I feel called upon to add is the following announcement, culled from a fashionable newspaper. "On the 3rd June," we read, "at Onslow Square, to Mr. and Mrs. James Adolphus Macartney, a daughter." That ought to do instead of the wedding bells once demanded by the average reader. Let it then stand for the point of my pair's pilgrimage.
Bob took this advice, and the sympathetic Watterby family came to the oil-spotted pair's assistance with copious supplies of hot water, soap and towels and liberal handfuls of borax, for the water was very hard. "I'm clean, anyway, and that makes me feel good, so why should I care how I look?" was Bob's defense when his appearance was commented on.
And then the music stopped, the Brasserie des Quatre Vents became a glaring reality, and the painted female sipping eau-de-vie at my elbow remarked plaintively, 'Tu n'es pas rigolo, toi. Veux-tu faire une valse? 'I must speak to your musician, I said. 'Excuse me. He had played a bit of Pair's music.
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