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Book, page 181 / 462 Finsb. (packing up band boxes). Well, ma'm, I'm glad I have your approbation. It has ever been my study to please the ladies. Farm. (throws a fancy mantle over his frieze coat). And is this the way to please the ladies, Mrs. Landlady, nowadays? Finsb. (taking off the mantle). Sir, with your leave--I ask pardon--but the least thing detriments these tender colours; and as you have just been eating cheese with your hands-- Farm. 'Tis my way to eat cheese with my mouth, man. Finsb. MAN! Farm. I ask pardon--man-milliner, I mean. Enter LANDLORD. Landlord. Why, wife! Landlady. Wife! Landlord. I ask pardon--Mrs. Newington, I mean. Do you know who them ladies are that you have been and turned out of the Dolphin? Landlady (alarmed). Not I, indeed. Who are they, pray? Why, if they are quality it's no fault of mine. It is their own fault for coming, like scrubs, without four horses. Why, if quality will travel the road this way, incognito, how can they expect to be known and treated as quality? 'Tis no fault of mine. Why didn't you find out sooner who they were, Mr. Newington? What else, in the 'versal world have you to do, but to go basking about in the yards and places with your tankard in your hand, from morning till night? What have you else to ruminate, all day long, but to find out who's who, I say? Farm. Clapper! clapper! clapper! like my mill in a high wind, landlord. Clapper! clapper! clapper!--enough to stun a body. Landlord. That is not used to it; but use is all, they say.
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