'Upon my life, Thir, it'th a very fine piethe of work,' says Puddock,
who viewed the wiglet with the eye of a stage-property man, and held it
by a top lock near the candle. 'The very finetht piethe of work of the
kind I ever thaw. 'Tith thertainly French. Oh, yeth--we can't do such
thingth here. By Jove, Thir, what a wig that man would make for Cato!'
'An' he must be a mane crature--I say, a mane crature,' pursued
O'Flaherty, 'for there was not a soul in the town but Jerome, the--the
treacherous ape, that knew it. It's he that dhresses my head every
morning behind the bed-curtain there, with the door locked. And Nutter
could never have found it out--_who_ was to tell him, unless that ojus
French damon, that's never done talkin' about it;' and O'Flaherty strode
heavily up and down the room with his hands in his breeches' pockets,
muttering savage invectives, pitching his head from side to side, and
whisking round at the turns in a way to show how strongly he was wrought
upon.
'Come in, Sorr!' thundered O'Flaherty, unlocking the door, in reply to a
knock, and expecting to see his 'ojus French damon.
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