"Mrs. Snell," inquired the Admiral, in a whisper, "what are they
like?" He pointed melodramatically towards "The Bower" as he asked
the question.
Again the unexpected happened. Mrs. Snell burst into loud and
hysterical sobbing.
"Don't 'ee, sir! don't 'ee! I can't abear it. Not a thing can you do
to please 'em, an' the Honorubble Frederic a-dammin' about the 'ouse
fit to make your flesh creep. An' that though he might 'ave ate his
dinner off the floor, gold studs an' all, as I told 'un at last.
For 'twasn't in flesh and blood, sir--not to be ordered this way an'
that by a whipper-snapper whose gran'mother I might 'a been, though
he _'as_ got three rows o' shiny buttons on 'is stummick, which is no
cause for a proud carriage toward them as 'asn't, nor callin' 'em
slow-coaches and names which I won't soil my tongue wi'--an' so I
said. Aw dear! aw dear!" And here Mrs. Snell's passion again found
vent in violent sobs and cries.
"Hush! Confound it! Hush! I tell you. You'll have the whole town
out."
"I beg your pardon, sir--boo-hoo!--but it isn't in natur', sich
wickedness in 'igh places, an' pore Maria sick at 'ome wi' the colic
an' a leak in the roof you might put your cocked 'at through, an'
very fine it looks, sir, beggin' your parding agen, which is all
vexashun o' sperrit on a shillin' a day an' your vittles, let alone
bein' swore at 'till you dunno whether you be 'pon your 'ed or your
'eels.
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