letting me have it—for that which follows. But one writer, one pen. I am not man enough for his, not though I take both arms to it. As witness:
Then he called for tea. And thenceforward for the space of one thousand and five hundred and sixty and three or four minutes, to be strictly accurate, there was such a pumping of pumps, kindling of fires, boiling of kettles, such a milking of cattle—Jerseys, shorthorns, Bedfordshires, black, brown, white, yellow, spotted with dun and splashed with red, fat, lean, with crumpled horn and with horn of symmetrical shape, and Chillinghams, not to mention buffaloes and yaks and female coiros (of which there are too few); such an opening of caddies and measuring of measures, such a filling of sugar-bowls, such an outgoing of the raw material, such a polishing and rubbing up of spoons and knives, such a submitting to the towel of cups and platters, such a disintegration of loaves, wheaten and oaten, such a spreading of butter, such a bringing of cakes—seed, currant, sultana, and the Simnel and the Genoa cakes and all other kinds of cakes and Dundee cake, such a spreading of tray cloths, such an unfolding of Japanese napkins, such a making and a baking of little brown scones and cookies and other hot breads, that the like was never seen before nor
