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Updated: June 28, 2025
"I believe," continued Clifford, not heeding the interruption, "that my poor mother, before she died, desired that I might be reared honestly; and strange as it may seem to you, Dame Lobkins is a conscientious woman in her own way, it is not her fault if I have turned out as I have done. Now I know well that it would grieve her to the quick to see me what I am.
"I believe," continued Clifford, not heeding the interruption, "that my poor mother, before she died, desired that I might be reared honestly; and strange as it may seem to you, Dame Lobkins is a conscientious woman in her own way, it is not her fault if I have turned out as I have done. Now I know well that it would grieve her to the quick to see me what I am.
You have many an alias, I'll be bound." Here the young gentleman again hesitated; at length he replied, "Paul Lobkins, your worship." "Lobkins!" repeated the judge, "Lobkins! Come hither, Saunders; have not we that name down in our black books?"
Lobkins were hushed in a drowsy stupor; even the gray cat that lay by the fire was curled in the embrace of Morpheus. Nevertheless, it was in a close whisper that Dummie spoke.
"I 'as heard as 'ow Judith was once blowen to a great lord!" said Dummie. "Like enough!" returned Mrs. Lobkins, "like enough! "Ay, I knows as how you liked her, 'cause vy? 'T is not your vay to let a room to a voman! You says as how 't is not respectable, and you only likes men to wisit the Mug!"
Lobkins; but his whisper seemed to imply an insinuation that the illustrious editor of "The Asinaeum" might be either an informer, or one of those heroes on whom an informer subsists. Mrs. Lobkins's answer, couched in the same key, appeared to satisfy Dunnaker, for with a look of great contempt he chucked up his head and said, "Oho! that be all, be it!"
After a short preparatory search in his waistcoat pockets, the critic hunted into one corner a solitary half-crown, and having caught it between his finger and thumb, he gave it to Mrs. Lobkins and requested change. As soon as the matron felt her hand anointed with what has been called by some ingenious Johnson of St.
Paul Lobkins, whom they had known, they said, for many years, and for whom they had the greatest respect.
Below those twin emblems of war and cookery were four shelves, containing plates of pewter and delf, and terminating, centaur-like, in a sort of dresser. At the other side of these domestic conveniences was a picture of Mrs. Lobkins, in a scarlet body and a hat and plume. At the back of the fair hostess stretched the blanket we have before mentioned.
Lobkins, remembering the hardy temper and fiery passions of Paul, had expected some burst of rage, some vehement reply; and when she caught with one wandering eye his parting look, and saw him turn so passively and mutely to the door, her heart misgave her, she raised herself from her chair, and made towards him.
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