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whole wardrobe followed.—What a procession! her red damask,—her orange-tawny,—her white and yellow lutestrings,—her brown taffata,—her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats.—Not a rag was left behind.—"No,—she will never look up again," said Susannah.
We had a fat foolish scullion—my father, I think, kept her for her simplicity;—she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.—He is dead! said Obadiah,—he is certainly dead!—So am not I, said the foolish scullion.
—Here is sad news, Trim! cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim step'd into the kitchen,—master Bobby is dead and buried,—the funeral was an interpolation of Susannah's,—we shall have all to go into mourning, said Susannah.
I hope
