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Updated: June 6, 2025
He complained especially of those from ladies not much skilled in science, saying, "What should they do but ask silly questions, when they spend their lives in doing naething but spatting muslin?"
But begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint when I saw the citizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing and blowing with the dropsy, and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book and candle in Irish, spitting and spatting out of him and Joe and little Alf round him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him. Let me alone, says he.
The two girls had been spatting thus in lowered voices on the sofa, and as Tibbie ended, her disputant's arm was about her waist, and she was squeezed almost to suffocation. "Oh, Tibbie, wilt tell me all about it and him once we are in bed to-night?" begged Janice, in the lowest but most eager of whispers. Whether this prayer would have been granted was not to be known, for as it was uttered Mr.
Billy had not come, but the pleasant-looking woman had succeeded in making friends with Alice, and as Mary passed out of the yard she saw her little sister spatting the window sill, and apparently well pleased with her new nurse. Scarcely were they out of sight of the house, when Sal, seating herself upon a large stone, commenced divesting her feet of her shoes and stockings.
"I was a little ashamed to be spatting away alone, but it pleased the fat woman, who proved to be Mrs. Brown, the keeper of the basket-boarders. "'That's Miss Smith. She done nice, didn't she, and she or'to of had some flowers, she said to me; and then I remembered with a pang that not a flower had been sent up to her the flower of them all and wished I had a whole green-house to give her.
Thorny likes queer leaves and berries, you know," answered Bab, "spatting," down her rough locks. "Well, he won't like that, nor you either; it's poisonous, and I shouldn't wonder if you'd got poisoned, Bab. Don't touch it!
Those who came farthest were first on the ground; and by the time twelve-year-old Thomas Jefferson, spatting barefooted up the dusty pike, had reached the church-house with the key, there was a goodly sprinkling of unhitched teams in the grove, the horses champing their feed noisily in the wagon-boxes, and the people gathering in little neighborhood knots to discuss gravely the one topic uppermost in all minds the present outpouring of grace on Paradise Valley and the region round-about.
He stepped down out of his automobile and walked around the crowd, spatting his gloved hands together, and looking them over critically. So he came to Thelismer Thornton, waiting on the steps, and shook his hand. Mr. Presson was short and fat and rubicund, and, just now, plainly worried. "This was the last place I expected to have to jump into, Thelismer," he complained.
"Oh, what pretty white water!" cried Zaidee, eagerly, stooping down and spatting her hands in the trough, and then throwing it up in the air. It came down all over herself and Helen. "I don't like it. It smells so loud," said dainty Helen, drawing back. Zaidee sniffed, critically. "Yes, it does, Helen. But isn't it pretty? Let's look over the wall and see what it looks like."
"You can come with me or stay here just exactly as you please. But I'm going." Theodosia went on spatting her balls of golden butter on the print in silence. She was looking very neat and pretty in her big white apron, her sleeves rolled up high above her plump, dimpled elbows, and her ruddy hair curling about her face and her white throat. She looked as pliable as her butter.
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