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Chapter 42

Illustrative of the convivial Sentiment, that the best
of Friends must sometimes part.

The pavement of Snow Hill had been baking and frying all
day in the heat, and the twain Saracensí heads guarding
the entrance to the hostelry of whose name and sign they
are the duplicate presentments, looked--or seemed, in the eyes of
jaded and footsore passers-by, to look--more vicious than usual,
after blistering and scorching in the sun, when, in one of the innís
smallest sitting-rooms, through whose open window there rose, in
a palpable steam, wholesome exhalations from reeking coach-
horses, the usual furniture of a tea-table was displayed in neat and
inviting order, flanked by large joints of roast and boiled, a tongue,
a pigeon pie, a cold fowl, a tankard of ale, and other little matters
of the like kind, which, in degenerate towns and cities, are
generally understood to belong more particularly to solid lunches,
stage-coach dinners, or unusually substantial breakfasts.

Mr John Browdie, with his hands in his pockets, hovered
restlessly about these delicacies, stopping occasionally to whisk
the flies out of the sugar-basin with his wifeís pocket-
handkerchief, or to dip a teaspoon in the milk-pot and carry it to
his mouth, or to cut off a little knob of crust, and a little corner of
meat, and swallow them at two gulps like a couple of pills. After
every one of these flirtations with the eatables, he pulled out his
watch, and declared with an earnestness quite pathetic that he
couldnít undertake to hold out two minutes longer.

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