“Dezist moddam,” cried Mr. Withersquash, “and list. My unckle Burt is dead!”
“Him dead, well I never!” the chaste ample matron replied with a kindly twist at her handsom broch of platted hares, “What ever next!”
But now the delicious Selia pushed past her ma’s elbow, she was a fair rose of Briton, rather false hair like we see advertised, her [3] ]somewhat perfect nose would scarse be noticed to have been turned up, owing to sleeping on her stomache, and she wore a nice dress of white embrery, a good few broches and some yellow stockings.
“Your unckle dead?” she asked.
Mr. Withersquash grappling her hand in fierce welcome of joy, replied: “Yes, and he has left me a good bit.”
“Ah, Harold!” cried our young heroine pushing more forward, “are you in truth rich?”
“Well, not so bad,” our little gentleman replied. “I am quite well to do.”
Selia’s ma now stept off to think this news over.
“Go on!” uttered Selia in amaze.
“True as I stand here,” ansered Mr. Withersquash making himself very important.