[a mine]is digg'd out with ease, being soft, and is between a white Clay and Chalk at first; but being pulley'd up with the open Air, it receives a crusty kind of hardness
Diſparage not the faith thou doſt not know, / Leſt to thy perill thou abide it deare.]
Dowie could scarcely have told what phrase or word at last suddenly brought up before her a picture of the nursery in the house in Mayfair—the feeling of a warm soft childish body pressed close to her knee, the look of a tender, dewy-eyed small face and the sound of a small yearning voice saying: I want to kiss you, Dowie.
I want to kiss you, Dowie.
All whiche offences and mysdemenors abovesaid have bene commytted to the grete hurte and undoyng of your orator, and the right evill and parlous example, [etc.]; […]
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