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a web of many textures

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I 've just come from seeing old Mr. Sprat,” said
Mrs. Sled, dropping in upon Mrs. Partington, suddenly,
and sinking into a seat as she spoke. “Poor creatur, he
does look miser'ble; he 's got one foot in the grave, you
may depend.” — “Has he, indeed?” said the sympathetic
dame. “Well, I noticed, the other day, he walked rather
limpid, as he went along.” Mrs. Partington sniffed as if
she smelt something. “It seems to be cotton a burning,”
said she, drawing a long breath; “don't you smell
anything?” Mrs. Sled informed her that she had a bad
cold in her head, and could n't be exactly said to possess
any of her five senses. Mrs. Partington sniffed
again. “I declare,” said the lady whose five senses
were blunted by the cold, “I declare I feel something,”
which showed that the sense of feeling was not wanting,
and, jumping to her feet, disclosed her dress on fire
behind. “Get off my match-rope!” said Ike, dashing in
with half a bunch of crackers in his hand. The intimation
was unnecessary, and, as Mrs. Sled extinguished
herself in the sink, she breathed an inward prayer for
the hope of the house of Partington.