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Balancing her voice on a very high note she popped her head through the dining-room door to speak to her husband. He was seated at the table reading “The Family Herald.” His straggling grey locks were disordered with his mental effort and formed a frieze of irregular design on his shining forehead. Mrs. Wopp’s voice, in a moment, was safe on terra firma. “O Billy, the poor rabbit will surely be caught; and you know the stag hid in ‘Trosach’s wildest nook.’” “I’m so sorry our afternoon has been spoiled,” she apologized. “While we wait we might as well have a cup of tea. Maria, rinse the silver teapot with boiling water.”.
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“He smiles sich a toothy grin,” commented Moses. “Sit near the front so you can give me inspiration, Miss Gordon,” the musician said in an undertone as he stood hat in hand ready to hurry off for the first show. “Perhaps this is Nancy’s way of playing,” he thought. Job’s feathers that to Betty’s eyes had taken on the glory of ostrich plumes, drooped disconsolately, while Moses denounced in fluent language the stupidity of the fowl that had caused the unfortunate episode. He declared loudly that he would like to wring the aggressive portions of those feathered culprits. The group stood for a moment, a miniature Vesuvius erupting lava and ashes, while Moses wrung the offending liquid from Betty’s yellow drape and the magenta antimacassar. His sense of the ludicrous however overcame his wrath, “My Eye Betty!” he cried, “I near kerlapse every time I draw up my curtings on Job.”.
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