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"We sat at that table over there; I remember it as though it was yesterday. I ordered all kinds of supper, and at last the waiter brings in some cheese and crackers. It was a kind of a greenish, mouldy cheese Rocquefort! Yes, I believe that's it. I goes against a little piece of it, and 'on the grave, I like to fainted. Good!
And I was trying to coax the whimpering Bobs back to the shack-steps when Dinky-Dunk himself came galloping up through the uncertain light, with Lady Alicia a few hundred yards behind him. "Have you found him?" my husband asked, quick and curt. But there was a pale greenish-yellow tint to his face that made me think of Rocquefort cheese. "No," I told him.
Well, maybe you think it's good, but scratch your Uncle Dudley out of any race where they enter Rocquefort. "Yes; those were happy days for me. I hate to think about them now. I had a good time while it lasted, though, and when they got me 'on the tram, I had to go to hustlin'. Well, here comes supper. Excuse me now, while I get busy with a piece of that steak."
Consider the cheese of Rocquefort: how hard it is in its little box. Consider the cheese of Camembert, which is hard also, and also lives in a little box, but must not be eaten until it is soft and yellow. Consider the cheese of Stilton, which is not made there, and of Cheddar, which is.
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