"It's just your husband. Isn't his name Sawmill?"

"Dear no! Have you forgotten?--David."

"Ou, ay. I knew it was some Scripcher Petrarch or another, Daavid, or
Naathan, or Sawmill. And how is he, and where is he?"

Mrs. Dodd replied that he was on the seas, but expect----

"Then I wish him well off 'em, confound 'em oncannall! Halloa! why, this
will be the little girl grown up int' a wumman while ye look round."

"Yes, may good friend; and her mother's darling."

"And she's a bonny lass, I can tell ye. But no freend to the Dockers, I
see."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Dodd sadly, "looks are deceitful; she is under medical
advice at this very----"

"Well, that won't hurt her, unless she takes it." And he burst into a
ringing laugh: but in the middle of it, stopped dead short, and his face
elongated. "Lord sake, mad'm," said he impressively," mind what y' are
at, though; Barkton's just a trap for fanciful femuls: there's a n'oily
ass called Osmond, and a canting cut-throat called Stephenson and a
genteel, cadaveris old assassin called Short, as long as a maypole;
they'd soon take the rose out of Miss Floree's cheek here. Why, they'd
starve Cupid, an' veneseck Venus, an' blister Pomonee, the vagabins."