But as he dressed the carcass—cutting it up to bring home—Borg’s gratitude gave way to revulsion. When he tried to extract the liver, which should have been firm and meaty, it deliquesced into a bloody sludge, sliding goopily through his fingers.
So I orders a bottle, as if for myself; and, ‘Ma’am,’ says I, ‘will you take a glass of Sham—just one?’
The fields between / Are dewy-fresh, brows'd by deep-udder'd kine, […]
R. Jeeves: In my experience, ladies who spell Gladys with a W are seldom noted for their reliability, sir. It gives them romantic notions. B.W. Wooster: With a W, Jeeves? No, no, no, no. You spell it with a G. R. Jeeves: If I might draw your attention to the signature on the portrait, sir. B.W. Wooster: Good Lord! G-W? R. Jeeves: I blame Alfred Lord Tennyson and his Idylls of the King. It also accounts for Kathryn, Ysabel, and Ethyl, all spelt with a Y, but Gwladys is a particularly virulent form, sir.
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