Come, now, deacon, said the shopkeeper, abruptly dropping the cat, "you can turn up your nose at my ideas all you vant, but you mustn't turn it up at my shurch.
Come, now, deacon,
Yon rippling stream, whose dimpled waves Leap sparkling by the shadowy graves, Singing a song as they leap along — A joyant song as they leap along — Makes the only sound that stirs the breeze, Is the only thing which the vision sees, Moving about 'neath the church-yard trees.
‘Well, what did the old bleeder say?’ said Opus Fluke.
He could be terrifically epigrammatical.
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