” Lucy replied sadly. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that much in my entire life, Lucy, and that’s saying something. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. “It’s very good,” she said. You must forgive the poet’s license I take.
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