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I hurried after Sam, calling, "You might wait for us!" The last word, though it was but one syllable, covered two octaves, for my voice broke, as it had been doing lately with alarming frequency. Sam turned back with a mischievous grin on his face. "Was that your voice cracking, or were you attempting to yodel?" --
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Gary L. Blackwood |
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We'd best find Sal Pavy now, afor some scanderbag pounds him into a pudding and takes all his money." "Some SCANDERBAG?" "Aye. What's wrong wi' that?" Sam shook his head. "How long have you been in London?" "Nearly two years. Why?" "You still sound as though you'd arrived from Yorkshire yesterday."
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Gary L. Blackwood |
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Sam laughed. "One of these days you're going to forget your lines and have to thribble, and it's going to come out in Yorkshire-ese." He put a hand to his brow, in a parody of the way I played Ophelia in Hamlet. "'Gog's blood! I wis some scanderbag has brast his noble costard wi' a waster!'" He yodeled the last word in imitation of my uncertain voice. I tried to scowl at him, but my features kept wanting to break in to a grin. "You sot! I'..
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Gary L. Blackwood |
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Besides, there are other concerns. Suppose this--What did you call him?" "Falconer." "Suppose this Falconer sells the play to a printer, who publishes it and has it registered. Then the Chamberlain's Men lose all legal right to perform it ourselves." "Oh. I didn't ken." "We generally delay publication as long as possible. Some companies care little for registrations or rights, and to print the play is the same as saying 'Here it is, and wel..
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Gary L. Blackwood |