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 —O ye criticks! will nothing melt you?

—My young master in London is dead! said Obadiah.—

—A green sattin night-gown of my mother's, which had been twice scoured, was the first idea which Obadiahs exclamation brought into Susannahs head.—Well might Locke write a chapter upon the imperfections of words.—Then, quoth Susannah, we must all go into mourning.—But note a second time: the word mourning, notwithstanding Susannah made use of it herself—failed also of doing its office; it excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,—all was green.—The green sattin night-gown hung there still.

—O! 'twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried Susannah.—My mother's