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Updated: May 15, 2025
It seemed to wrap itself round the tongue and impede utterance like a gag. And while I was still endeavouring to clear the vocal cords for action, she went on: "Do you realize what you started when you sent that Spink-Bottle man down here?
Considering what had passed at Market Snodsbury that afternoon, it was one which I had been expecting her to touch on earlier. When she did touch on it, I could see that she had not yet been informed of Angela's engagement. "I say, Bertie," she said, meditatively chewing fruit salad. "This Spink-Bottle." "Nottle." "Bottle," insisted the aunt firmly.
I have an idea that this Spink-Bottle of yours is going to be good. If only he can keep off newts." "Has he been talking about newts?" "He has. Fixing me with a glittering eye, like the Ancient Mariner. But if that was the worst I had to bear, I wouldn't mind. What I'm worrying about is what Tom says when he starts talking." "Uncle Tom?"
There was an hour of breathless suspense, and then the joyful tidings arrived: Well, all right. Something in what you say, I suppose. Consider you treacherous worm and contemptible, spineless cowardly custard, but have booked Spink-Bottle. Stay where you are, then, and I hope you get run over by an omnibus. Love. Travers. The relief, as you may well imagine, was stupendous.
Do you think Brinkley Court is a leper colony or what is it? Who is this Spink-Bottle? Love. Travers. I had expected some such initial reaction. I replied in temperate vein: Not Bottle. Nottle. Regards. Bertie.
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