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Updated: June 18, 2025
"The only thing about it was the fact that your father 'ad a bullet 'ole in 'is 'ead." Harry leaned forward and pointed to his own scar. "It 'it right about 'ere, and glanced. It did n't 'urt 'im much, and I bandaged it and then covered it with 'is 'at, so nobody could see." "But the gun? We did n't find any." "'E 'ad it with 'im. It was Sissie Larsen's.
"Why's he walk funny?" persisted William. "Has he hurt his legs?" "Yus," said Blake with a wink. "'E 'urt 'em at the Blue Cow comin' 'ere." Mr. Jones' sheepish smile broadened into a guffaw. "Well, you rest," said William sympathetically. "You lie down on the sofa an' rest. I'll help, so's you needn't do anything!" Mr. Jones grew hilarious. "Come on!" he said. "My eye!
'Oh, I've got a bit of a toothache, an' well, I'm rather a fool like, an' it 'urt so much that I couldn't 'elp cryin'. Liza was not satisfied, but could get nothing further out of her. Then one day it came out. It was a Saturday night, the time when women in Vere Street weep. Liza went up into Sally's room for a few minutes on her way to the Westminster Bridge Road, where she was to meet Jim.
As the weird illumination continued its fantastic gambols, little points of light began moving about the deck. Just then Caradoc's grave voice hazarded: "That must be an extraordinary display of St. Elmo's fire. I should say a storm was brewing." "Would St. Elmo's fire 'urt th' vessel, sir?" asked a cockney. "Not at all," replied the Englishman.
Mr. Polly returned in a complicated manner to his moorings. He found the plump woman rather flushed and tearful, and seated at one of the green tables outside. "I been laughing at you," she said. "What for?" asked Mr. Polly. "I ain't 'ad such a laugh since Jim come 'ome. When you 'it 'is 'ed, it 'urt my side." "It didn't hurt his head not particularly." She waved her head.
"Sure he ain't learying?" came the voice of the man with the shivers. "You fear'd on him still, Alf?" asked one curiously. "Fear'd on him? No, I ain't fear'd on him!" came a ghastly titter. "Got no cause, ave I?" "He won't urt you," replied the other, soothingly. "He's dead all right ain't you, Diamond? You can tweak his nose, see? and then go ome, and tell the gals what you done.
"That's Job!" nodded the Ancient. "Poor fellow!" said I, and rose to go to his assistance. "Oh, that weren't nothin'," said the Ancient, laying, a restraining hand upon my arm, "nothin' at all. Job bean't 'urt; why, I've seen 'em fall further nor that afore now, but y' see Job be pretty heavy handlin' even for Black Jarge."
You don't mean to 'urt, but selfish you are and 'eedless, an' somebody 'as al'ays the world's trouble clearin' up the mess.
"I ain't hit a man for five years," 'e ses, still dancing up and down "fighting's sinful except in a good cause but afore I got a new 'art, Ginger, I'd lick three men like you afore breakfast, just to git up a appetite." "Look, 'ere," ses Ginger; "you're an old man and I don't want to 'urt you; tell us where our money is, our 'ard-earned money, and I won't lay a finger on you."
"But you've no right to publish these things about me." "Is it true? If it's true I have got every right to publish it. If it's not true, I've got the right to ask the question. If you will 'ave to do with Prime Ministers you can't 'ide yourself under a bushel. Tell me this; is it true? You might as well go 'and in 'and with me in the matter. You can't 'urt yourself.
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