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have had nearly the whole coach to yourself.’

‘Don’t deny it, ’Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, impressively, ‘because
you have, and it’s no use to go attempting to say you haven’t. You
mightn’t have known it in your sleep, ’Tilda, but I haven’t closed
my eyes for a single wink, and so I think I am to be believed.’

With which reply, Miss Squeers adjusted the bonnet and veil,
which nothing but supernatural interference and an utter
suspension of nature’s laws could have reduced to any shape or
form; and evidently flattering herself that it looked uncommonly
neat, brushed off the sandwich-crumbs and bits of biscuit which
had accumulated in her lap, and availing herself of John Browdie’s
proffered arm, descended from the coach.

‘Noo,’ said John, when a hackney coach had been called, and
the ladies and the luggage hurried in, ‘gang to the Sarah’s Head,

‘To the vere?’ cried the coachman.
‘Lawk, Mr Browdie!’ interrupted Miss Squeers. ‘The idea!
Saracen’s Head.’

‘Sure-ly,’ said John, ‘I know’d it was something aboot Sarah’s
Son’s Head. Dost thou know thot?’

‘Oh, ah! I know that,’ replied the coachman gruffly, as he
banged the door.

‘‘Tilda, dear, really,’ remonstrated Miss Squeers, ‘we shall be
taken for I don’t know what.’

‘Let them tak’ us as they foind us,’ said John Browdie; ‘we
dean’t come to Lunnun to do nought but ‘joy oursel, do we?’

‘I hope not, Mr Browdie,’ replied Miss Squeers, looking
singularly dismal.

‘Well, then,’ said John, ‘it’s no matther. I’ve only been a married

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