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"You've got him safe enough, mother," said I, "and it's no good cooking him since you can't eat him." "Be yow another stinking robber, like this'n?" she demanded. The epithet was as apt as it was vigorous, for the stink of singeing cloth made me sniff. "If y'be," she went on, "I'll shove' im in the fire and set about yow." "Not a bit of it, mother.
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