“Yet,” said Mr. Pumblechook, leading the company gently back to the theme from which they had strayed, “Pork — regarded as biled — is rich, too; ain't it?”
“Have a little brandy, uncle,” said my sister.
O Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was weak, he would say it was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the table under the cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate.
My sister went for the stone bottle, came back with the stone bottle, and poured his brandy out: no one else taking any.
The wretched man trifled with his glass, — took it up, looked at it through the light, put it down, — prolonged my