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Updated: May 27, 2025
"Sure I can't, Suey! The General's sittin' on it!" And Suey's long-nailed Mongolian talons went up in despair as he turned appealingly to their rescuer. "Sitting on what, Doyle? Quick!" said Mrs. Stannard. "The sherry, ma'am! The doctor sent it over wid his comps to s'prise him, an' my orders was to fill the little glasses when I'd took in the soup, an' I put it under the barrel chair " But Mrs.
No, the oven door was open, the precious chickens, brown, basted and done to a turn, were waiting Suey's deft hands to shift them to the platter. Stannard's quick and comprehensive glance took in every detail.
The "stick" was obviously figurative mere vernacular yet something serious, for Suey's olive-brown skin was jaundiced with worry, and the face of Doyle, the soldier striker, as he came hurrying back from the banquet board, was beading with the sweat of mental torment. Soup, it seems, was already served, and Doyle burst forth, hoarse whispering, before ever he caught sight of the visiting angel.
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