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"'Tis yours, Miss Graye," says he. "No, 'tis yours," says she. "'Tis'n' mine," says he. The Crown had cast his eyes upon the case, thinken o' forfeiture by felony but 'twas no such thing, and 'a gied it up, too. Did you ever hear such a tale? three people, a man and a woman, and a Crown neither o' em in a madhouse flingen an estate backwards and forwards like an apple or nut?
"By the way, how do you get along with Coffin?" "He he seems very kind." "Tis'n his way with boys as a rule." Mr. Goodfellow tapped his forehand with the end of his two-foot rule. "Upper story," he announced. "You think so?" "Sure of it. Cracked as a bell. Not," said Mr.
I doan' waant naw squeechin', squallin' brats mookin' oop t' plaace as faast as I clanes it, An' 'E woonna kape yo ef yo're raakonin' on 'im. Yo need na tall mae oo t' maan is. I knaw." "'Tis'n 'im, Moother. 'Tis'n 'im." "Yo lil blaack liar! 'Tis 'im. Ooo alse could it bae? Yo selly! Whatten arth possessed yo t' goa an' tak oop wi' Jim Greatorex?
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