'Well,' said she, 'I thought the shiny Quaker was a rum un, but blow
me if you ain't a rummyer.
'Her name was Winifred, and the word "father" produced fits,' I said,
not to the woman, but to my soul, in mocking answer to its own woe.
'What about my father's spiritualism now? Good God! Is there no other
ancestral tomfoolery, no other of Superstition's patent Aylwinian
soul-salves for the philosophical Nature-worshipper and apostle of
rationalism to fly to? Her name was Winifred.
'Yis; don't I say 'er name wur Winifred?' said the woman, who thought
I was addressing her. 'You're jist like a poll-parrit with your
"Winifred, Winifred, Winifred." That was 'er name, an' she 'ad a
shock, pore dear, an' it was all along of you at the studero
a-talkin' about 'er father. You _must_ a-talked about 'er father: so
no lies. She 'ad fits arter that, in course she 'ad. Why, you'll make
me die a-larfin' with your poll-parritin' ways, sayin' "a shock, a
shock, a shock," arter me. In course she 'ad a shock; she 'ad it when
she was a little gal o' six.
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