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Updated: June 6, 2025
"There's a nice ole party fur you, Miss Sylvia?" "Debby," said the girl, thoughtfully. "You take her to the Yard to see Mr. Hurd, and then go to Kensington to speak with your sister." "Well, I'll go, as importance it is," said Mrs. Tawsey, rubbing her nose harder than ever. "But I 'opes you won't be lone, my poppet-dovey." "Oh, no," said Sylvia, kissing her, and pushing her towards the door.
That thing guv my lily-queen the 'orrors. Jes you 'ear, Mr. Beecot, and creeps will go up your back. Lor' 'ave mercy on us as don't know the wickedness of the world." "I think we have learned something of it lately, Mrs. Tawsey," was Paul's grim reply. "But tell me " "Wot my pore angel sunbeam said? I will, and if it gives you nightmares don't blame me," and Mrs.
"She is well; she has a laundry in Jubileetown near London, and she is married to a fellow called Bart Tawsey." "Married!" cried Matilda, setting down the tray and putting her arms akimbo, just like Deborah, "lor', and me still single. But now I've got this 'ouse, and a bit put by, I'll think of gittin' a 'usband. I ain't a-goin' to let Debby crow over me." "Your sister was in the service of Mr.
"Blest if I know," replied Tawsey, staring; "they're mad, I think," and he related the incoming of the Indian and the street arab. "As for that Tray," said he, growling, "I'll punch his blooming 'ead when I meets him agin, dancing on me yah. Allays meddlin' that brat, jus' as he wos when Mr. Beecot was smashed." "You saw that accident?" asked his master, fixing his one eye on him.
"I have heard all about that from Bart Tawsey, his shopman. Skip it and go on." "I can only go on so far as to say that Miss Norman will probably inherit a fortune of five thousand a year, beside the jewels contained in those bags. That is," said Mr. Pash, wisely, "if the jewels be not redeemed by those who pawned them." "Is there a will?" asked Hurd, rising to take his leave.
"Sooner, if me an' Matilder don't hit if orf, or if we hit each other, which, knowin' 'er 'abits, I do expects. But Bart's out till six, and there won't be anyone to look arter them as washes four of 'em," added Mrs. Tawsey, rubbing her nose, "and as idle as porkpines." "Mrs. Purr can look after them." "Look arter gin more like," said Deborah, contemptuously.
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