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The marquis, meanwhile, whose indefatigable search after Julia failed of success, was successively the slave of alternate passions, and he poured forth the spleen of disappointment on his unhappy domestics. Johnny Blossom stood and stared. For his part he would rather have his own mug at home with “For a Good Boy” upon it than all these fine antiques that so many old mouths had drunk from! “What can we do?” said Bob, his tone showing his dismay. “Seems like we are in a bad fix. ‘No boat, no can go!’ as the Chinaman says.”.
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Poor Uncle Isaac! He was sick now again—worse, in fact. He had heart disease, Mother said. Jeremias the wood-cutter also talked of a pain in his heart, but since he had begun to rub himself all over with kerosene, he had become much better. It smelled dreadfully in Jeremias’s little hut, but he was better. Johnny Blossom would certainly write to Uncle Isaac and tell him that all he had to do to cure himself of the pain was to rub himself with kerosene. "Some years since" said Thackeray in a public speech, "when I was younger, and used to frequent jolly assemblies, I wrote a Bacchanalian song to be chanted after dinner;" and a contemporary record has preserved a note of "the radiant gratification of his face whilst Horace Mayhew sang The Mahogany Tree, perhaps the finest and most soul-stirring of Thackeray's social songs." Mother went about, uncovering mirrors and furniture until the room which was called the white salon showed all white and yellow, with its gilding and its silken damask cushions gleaming in the strong September sunlight. “That wasn’t much to do,” said Tellef. What it was that wasn’t much to do, Tellef didn’t say. Johnny only stared out over the gray-blue splashing waves..
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