I heard Sinfi exclaim, 'I
sha'n't tell you what I said to him, so now! It was somethin' atween
him an' me.'
'There they are ag'in,' said Panuel, bending his head sagely round
and pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to the door; 'at it
ag'in! Them two chavies o' mine are allus a-quarrellin' now, an' it's
allus about the same thing. 'Tain't the quarrellin' as I mind so
much,--women an' sparrows, they say, must cherrup an' quarrel,--but
they needn't allus keep a-nag-naggin' about the same thing.'
'What's their subject, Panuel?' I asked.
'Subjick? Why _you_, in course. That's what the subjick is. When
women quarrels you may allus be sure there's a chap somewheres
about.'
By this time we had entered his bedroom: he went and sat upon the
bed, and without looking round him began unlacing his 'highlows.' I
had often on previous occasions remarked that Panuel, who, when
sober, was as silent as Videy, and looked like her in the face,
became, the moment that he passed into 'market-merriness,' as frank
and communicative as Sinfi, and (what was more inexplicable) _looked_
as much like Sinfi as he had previously looked like Videy.
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