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I didn't fix the mother language, and I can't unfix it, said the Captain coolly; 'else I'd make it pleasant. You must re-ceive. That's all. 'But why should I receive people who care as much for me as I care for them? asked Martin. 'Well! because I have had a muniment put up in the bar, returned the Captain. 'A what? cried Martin. 'A muniment, rejoined the Captain.
An' re-ceive our gol-den cro-wn. In that la-nd of pure de-light O-ver th-ar." "That's a cold hymn, an' unsuitable to the weather," remarked Tim Mallory at the end of the verse. "If you ask me, I'd say thar was mo' immediate comfort in singin' about the redness of hell-fire, an' how mortal close we're comin' to it."
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