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Updated: June 14, 2025
"No," said the father, shaking his head; "no mewing cat." "I can't bear mewing cats," said Clarence. "A mewing cat gets on my nerves!" "A mewing cat is so trying," said Elizabeth. "I dislike mewing cats," said old Mr. Yeardsley. That was all about mewing cats for the moment. They seemed to think they had covered the ground satisfactorily, and they went back to pictures.
Do you think I don't know my own picture my child my Venus. See! My own signature in the corner. Can you read, boy? Look: 'Matthew Yeardsley. This is my picture!" And well, by Jove, it was, don't you know! Well, we got him off to bed, him and his infernal Venus, and we settled down to take a steady look at the position of affairs.
Old Bill took a grip of the handle, turned it quickly, and in he went. And then we pulled up sharp, staring. The room was in darkness except for a feeble splash of light at the near end. Standing on a chair in front of Clarence's "Jocund Spring," holding a candle in one hand and reaching up with a knife in the other, was old Mr. Yeardsley, in bedroom slippers and a grey dressing-gown.
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