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He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back— “Hold your grouch, Sour,” Harold expostulated. Ebenezer Wopp sat at the head of the table. Beaming from behind a promising array of cups and saucers, his portly wife presented a countenance of aggressive hospitality. In height and girth Mrs. Wopp had much the advantage of her husband..
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“A dose of senner tea’ll fix that, my boy,” was Mrs. Wopp’s cheerful rejoinder. Several hands waved wildly and a chorus of voices eagerly broke in; through the childish babel could be heard a lisping narrative. CHAPTER XVII.—A SAMPLE OF EBENEZER WOPP’S IRE. “Arsk a dorg with a tin pail tied to his ear to smile at yer,” returned Moses, sourly..
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