' 'Niver! wol my
heart's warm, Tom. Aw'll niver have sich a huzzy i'th' haase, wheal'
aw am! aw'm nooan done wi yet! aw'll live a bit longer to plague yo
wi', an' as for cleanin', aw'll crawl abaat o' mi hands an' knees
afoor shoo shall do owt for me! Yo think aw'm poorly an' soa aw'm to
be trodden on, but aw'll let yo see awm worth a dozen deead uns yet;
nasty owd ponse as shoo is!" An' as sure as yor thear, Doctor, shoo
gate up th' next morn in' an' kinneld th' fair, an' when Tom coom hoam
to his braikfast all wor ready, an' shoo wor set daan at th' table wi
a clean cap on, an' lukkin as smart as smart could be. When th' chap
saw this, he said, "Lass, aw think aw'd better send Betty backward,"
"Eea, aw think tha had," shoo sed, "an' th'a can send her word throo
me 'at aw may live to donee on her gravestooan yet." Tom bafs in his
sleeve a bit sometimes, an' if iver one ov her owd fits seems likely
ta come on, he's nowt to do but say a word or two abaat Betty, an'
shoo's reight in a minnit. That licks buttermilk, Doctor.
It's a comfort.
It's a comfort a chap can do withaat what he connot get.
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