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SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY.
THE symposium of the preceding evening had been a little too much
for my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy.
Instead of going out therefore to spend the evening as I had proposed,
it occurred to me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a
mouthful of supper and go immediately to bed.
A light supper of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More
than a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still,
there can be no material objection to two. And really between two and
three, there is merely a single unit of difference. I ventured, perhaps,
upon four. My wife will have it five;--but, clearly, she has confounded
two very distinct affairs. The abstract number, five, I am willing to
admit; but, concretely, it has reference to bottles of Brown Stout,
without which, in the way of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed.
Having thus concluded a frugal meal, and donned my night-cap, with the
serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I placed my head upon
the pillow, and, through the aid of a capital conscience, fell into a
profound slumber forthwith.
But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled? I could not have
completed my third snore when there came a furious ringing at the
street-door bell, and then an impatient thumping at the knocker, which
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