“‘They’re allus arter you, boy,’ he said. ‘Allus arter you.’ I was, at the time, very small, and it was much too soon for me to point out that Silas, on the contrary, was always arter them. ‘Like her,’ he said. ‘Take her. Allus arter me.’ At the age of ninety-one my Uncle Silas still had something of the look of a crusty farmyard cock. He gave a great sniffing sort of sigh, fixed his bloodshot eye on me in cunning reminiscence and whipped a dewdrop off his nose. ‘She wadn’ half a tartar,’ he sai...d. ‘Everlastin’ arter me. Night and day.’ ‘Doing what?’ I said. ‘Plaguing on me.’ ‘For what?’ ‘Tormentin’ on me,’ he said. ‘Whittlin’ me to death.’ His bloodshot eye had a crack of scarlet glee across it. ‘What was her name?’ I said. ‘Tutts,’ he said. ‘That’s a funny name.’ ‘She wur a funny woman,’ he said. ‘She wur very near the death on me.’ Since my Uncle Silas had reached the nineties and looked, in his leathery and ruddy heartiness, good for another dozen years, it seemed a very good moment to ask how death by Miss Tutts had been avoided so long ago.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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