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Updated: May 3, 2025
Last week a girl of twelve years old was fined the usual forty shillings and costs for proclaiming in the public streets that she was "a Protestant." The usual cry is, "To hell with the Pope!" or "To hell with the Protestants!" according to the utterer's system of salvation. One of Belfast's local jokes was very good.
Last week a girl of twelve years old was fined the usual forty shillings and costs for proclaiming in the public streets that she was "a Protestant." The usual cry is, "To hell with the Pope!" or "To hell with the Protestants!" according to the utterer's system of salvation. One of Belfast's local jokes was very good.
A bright, ringing specimen of a youth's laugh, given out by one who is healthy, strong, and fairly content, allowing for drawbacks, with the utterer's position in life. "Whatcher laughing at?" followed in the querulous tones of one who was to a great extent at the opposite pole of life. "You, Punch." "I don't see nothing to laugh at, sick and weak as I am."
"I suppose so," assented Peel-Swynnerton. The conversation fell for a few moments. "Staying here long?" Mr. Mardon demanded, having added up Peel- Swynnerton as a man of style and of means, and being puzzled by his presence at that table. "I don't know," said Peel-Swynnerton. This was a lie, justified in the utterer's opinion as a repulse to Mr.
He saw fire for the moment, and his teeth gritted together, as caution and the practice and skill he had displayed were no more, for, to use a schoolboy phrase, his monkey was up and he meant fighting he meant to use his fists to the best effect in trying to knock the vile slanderous words, uttered against the man he loved and venerated, down the utterer's throat, while his rage against those who crowded around, yelling with delight, took the form of back strokes with his elbow and more than one sharp blow at some intruding head.
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