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Morel had a warm way of telling a story. He made one feel Taffy's cunning. "He's a brown 'un," he would answer, "an' not very high. Well, he comes i' th' stall wi' a rattle, an' then yo' 'ear 'im sneeze. "'Ello, Taff, you say, 'what art sneezin' for? Bin ta'ein' some snuff? "An' 'e sneezes again. Then he slives up an' shoves 'is 'ead on yer, that cadin'. "'What's want, Taff? yo' say."
"Your mester's got hurt," he said. "Eh, dear me!" she exclaimed. "It's a wonder if he hadn't, lad. And what's he done this time?" "I don't know for sure, but it's 'is leg somewhere. They ta'ein' 'im ter th' 'ospital." "Good gracious me!" she exclaimed. "Eh, dear, what a one he is! There's not five minutes of peace, I'll be hanged if there is! His thumb's nearly better, and now Did you see him?"
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