"'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. ‘Because you are a bête, and a pig, and imbecile. It begins with that queer piccolo solo.
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