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Updated: June 29, 2025
Not but you've bin a good darter thus far, save for back-slidin' in the past; but I saved your sawl then, thanks be to the voice o' God in me, an' I saved your mother's sawl, though theer was tidy wraslin' for her; an' I'll save yourn yet if you'll do your paart."
"Not because they haven't asked 'ee, I'll lay. Couldn't 'ee fancy none of en, my dear sawl?" "Not enough for that, apparently." "I used to think you and that Killigrew weth his red head and his free tongue would make a match of it, but I suppose it was not to be.... Never mind, my dear. We never goes to church weth the first one as takes our fancy."
He turned 'pon en sudden an' sez: 'Praise God, praise the Lard o' Hosts, my sons, here's Tom, here's my lad as us thot weer drownded! Then he kissed that beast, an' it licked his faace, an' he cried that iron sawl cried like a wummon!
They Penns be a pauper lot him a fish-jouster as ain't so much as his awn donkey an' cart, an' lame tu. Not that 'twas his awn fault, I s'pose, but they do say a lame chap's never caught in a good trick notwithstandin'." "Here comes the weddeners!" said Joan, "but 'tedn' a very braave shaw," she added. "They'm all a-foot, I do b'lieve." "Aw, my dear sawl! look at that now!" cried Mrs. Tregenza.
Listen to your awn small guidin' voice, Joe Noy; listen to me, or to Luke Gosp'lers or any sober-thinkin', God-fearin' sawl. All the world would tell 'e you was wrong all the wisdom o' the airth be agin you, let alone heaven."
"Pharaoh's a soft-'earted twoad to this wan," he declared gloomily. "It do beat me to picksher sich a man. I've piped to en hot an' strong, as Joan knaws, but he ban't gwaine to dance 'tall seemin'ly. Poor sawl! When the hand o' the Lard do fall, God send 'twon't crush en all in all. 'Saved' him dear, dear!" "The likes of Tregenza be saved 'pon St.
Presently she departed with her stepmother, whereupon Sally Trevennick relieved her pent-up feelings. "Thank the Lard that chitter-faaced wummon edn' gwaine to the weddin' any ways! Us knaws she's a dear good sawl 'nough; but what wi' her sour voice, an' her sour way o' talkin', an' her sour 'pinions, she'm enough to set a rat-trap's teeth on edge."
Us must rot, every bone of us, in our season, an' 't is awnly the thought of it, not the fear of it, turns the stomach. But what's a wamblyness of the innards, so long as a body's sawl be ripe for God?" "A walkin' sermon!" said Mr. Chappie. Doctor Parsons was waiting for Billy at Monks Barton, and if John Grimbal had been brusque, the practitioner proved scarcely less so. He pronounced Mr.
My propositions never was more than agreeable conversation to her, but it might have come. Tell her theer's a world beyond marriage customs, an' us'll meet theer." Old Lezzard showed a good deal of anger at this speech, but being in a minority fell back and held his peace. "Would 'e like to see passon, dear sawl?" asked Mr.
He'd grawed to be a shadder of a man in my mind; but now I sees en real flaish'n blood; an' maybe maybe he'll seek me out an' kill me for what's done." "I do creem to hear 'e, gal! No, no, Joe Noy's a God fearin' sawl." "If he'd forgive me fust, I'd so soon he killed me as not. Sam Martin killed Widow Garth's gal 'cause she were ontrue to en; an' a many said 'twas wrong to hang en to Bodmin.
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