I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned, / Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree, / And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, / Nothing so much as mincing poetry.
Subdued and magnetized into submission, Ursula sat turning her tearful eyes from one uncompromising face to the other; but their attention was soon diverted to another weeper.
A 'cidiot,' I believe we're called by the locals?
I've done my bit; I expect you to do yours.
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