She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards. “We’re going to be sensible. ‘I knew it. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. She thrashed and screamed as he wrestled her back towards the bed.
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