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"Is it the tipsy-cake, then?" said Maggie, exerting her hypothetic powers, while she leaned forward toward Tom with her eyes fixed on the hovering knife. "No, you silly, that'll be good the day after. It's the pudden. I know what the pudden's to be, apricot roll-up O my buttons!"
"Still, there's likeness enough to recognise its membership to the general cabbage family; but, we have yet to try how it tastes!" "Aye, aye, sorr," said Mr McCarthy. "The proof of the pudden's in the aiting, sure!" However, the Kerguelen cabbage stood this test well enough.
Then there's young Buck Pudden's wife's way, and that's better than either, when you're dealing with some of these old heifers who browse over the range all day, stuffing themselves with gossip about your friends, and then round up at your house to chew the cud and slobber fake sympathy over you.
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