"You deserve," she said bitterly, "to go empty to bed, but my conscience forbids that I relax my vigilance over your health. Tomorrow, we shall see what can be done in the way of discipline."
We sat on three high-backed haircloth chairs. The steaming gruel slipped thickly into our stomachs. The hot gin had gone to our heads. Mrs. Handsomebody's head looked abnormally large to me, and seemed to be whirling round and round. Surely she was not getting like the cobbler's wife! Mrs. Handsomebody was still scolding:
"You began the day by introducing a canary of the lowest proclivities into my case of stuffed birds, where he perpetrated irreparable damage—"
The Seraph interrupted, "Don't you yike live birds, Mrs. Handsomebody?"
"I prefer stuffed birds to live ones, I confess."
The Seraph said apologetically: "And I pwefer gin to gwuel—any day."
"Gin! Where did you taste gin?"
Without reply The Seraph hurried on, while Angel and I scraped our bowls:
"There was once a student fellow and he didn't yike live birds, either. He poisoned one and it died. Then he undertook a walk (this was a favourite expression of Mrs. Handsomebody's)
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