I want to spiflicate her myself sometimes." "'Late last night I slew my wife, Stretched her on the parquet flooring; I was loath to take her life, But I _had_ to stop her snoring!'" quoted Hereward from _Ruthless Rhymes_.
"Look here!" said Quenrede, emerging from the kitchen with a half-packed lunch basket.

"We three are taking sandwiches, and going for a good old tramp over the moors.

Why not drop your work for once and come with us?
You look as if you needed a holiday." "I've a beast of a headache," admitted Athelstane.
"You want fresh air, not study," decreed Quenrede with sisterly firmness, "and I shall just make some extra sandwiches and put another apple in the basket.

With mother out, the orphan will carol all the morning, unless you gag her, so you may as well accept the inevitable." "Cut and run, in fact!" added Hereward.
"The voice of the siren tempts me to go--to escape the voice of the siren who stays!" wavered Athelstane.
"Oh, come along, old sport!" urged Ingred.

"What are a few old bones to Red Ridge Barrow?
You can swat to-night to make up, if you want to." "It's three to one!" said Athelstane, giving way gracefully; "and there mayn't be any more fine Saturdays for walks." The four young people started forth with the delightful sense of having the day before them.