The conversation then turned upon the weather. Mr. Pipes announced to the sympathetic Emily that, as a result of having to sit all day in a blooming greenhouse, his feet were slowly turning to ice. The authorities of the Orspital, he added bitterly, declined to allow him a fire, alleging that an oil-stove was sufficient for his needs.
“What a shime!” said pretty Emily.
“Something crool!” exclaimed sympathetic Pipette. (She had picked up this expression from Susan, the kitchen-maid, who was regarded by her colleagues as being somewhat “common in her talk.”)
“Pore devil!” remarked Pip dispassionately.
“Master Pip!” cried the scandalised Emily, blushing in a manner wh
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