“Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. Just sit down on that stool again and let’s talk of this in cold blood. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. He would never recognize me now. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you.
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