'Ho, gracious me!' cried Miggs, with hysterical derision. 'Ho, gracious
me! Yes, to be sure I will. Ho yes! I am a abject slave, and a
toiling, moiling, constant-working, always-being-found-fault-with,
never-giving-satisfactions, nor-having-no-time-to-clean-oneself,
potter's wessel--an't I, miss! Ho yes! My situations is lowly, and my
capacities is limited, and my duties is to humble myself afore the
base degenerating daughters of their blessed mothers as is--fit to
keep companies with holy saints but is born to persecutions from
wicked relations--and to demean myself before them as is no better than
Infidels--an't it, miss! Ho yes! My only becoming occupations is to help
young flaunting pagins to brush and comb and titiwate theirselves into
whitening and suppulchres, and leave the young men to think that there
an't a bit of padding in it nor no pinching ins nor fillings out nor
pomatums nor deceits nor earthly wanities--an't it, miss! Yes, to be
sure it is--ho yes!'
Having delivered these ironical passages with a most wonderful
volubility, and with a shrillness perfectly deafening (especially when
she jerked out the interjections), Miss Miggs, from mere habit, and not
because weeping was at all appropriate to the occasion, which was one of
triumph, concluded by bursting into a flood of tears, and calling in an
impassioned manner on the name of Simmuns.
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