Says he, “the prettiest girl in Log London where father lives.”
My emotions paralyzed me for nearly a quarter of a minute, and then says I,
“Where is she?”
“To her folks’es,” says he, “But she will be here next week.”
Betsey drew near. He looked calmly and fearlessly at her, but he murmured gently, “The twins will be a wakin’ up; I must be a goin’,” and he gently retreated.
The first words Betsey said to me was, “Ketch hold of me Josiah Allen’s wife, ketch hold of me, I am on the very point of swooning.”
Then I knew what Deacon Gowdey had been a tellin’ her. She looked like a blue ghost, trimmed off with otter color, for she had on a blue parmetta dress all trimmed with annato colored trimmin’s. She murmured in almost incoherent words, somethin’ about “her dearest gazelle bein’ a dyin’, and her wantin’ to be took off to her buryin’ ground.” But I knew it was no time for me to show my pity; true friendship demanded firmness and even sternness, and when she asked me wildly agin to “ketch hold of her,” I says to her coldly,
“Ketch holt of yourself, Betsey Bobbet.”
“My lost, my dearest gazelle is a dyin’! my hopes are witherin’!” says she, shettin’ up her eyes and kinder staggerin’ up against the wall.
Says I in tones as cold as old Zero, or pretty nigh as cold as that old man,