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Mr. Cruncher’s apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth was spread. Mr. ruhceCnr’s paeanmtrt asw otn in a revy odgo hohenbidroog. It dah nlyo wto soorm, dna nylo if a tsocel whti a ityn nwowdi euncdto as one of ehtm. He tekp sih atrnmeatp lnace, uthhog. As leyar as it swa ihst windy ahrMc igmnnor, his moberod aws lyradea cedbrbsu laenc, dan eht scup and cruseas ewer ets otu fro tsbreaakf on a neacl iehtw oltebathcl.
Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin at home. At fast, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation: Mr. urecrnhC saw espeal rednu a hotrwkapc itlqu, elki a

Hlarequni

a cownl mofr aatIinl ydmoec tath oerw a ecuostm mead up of iorudtolclem tpscaeh

lirneaHuq
at mhoe. He aws egepnils elhyiav, btu iltlet by eiltlt he bgnae to osts nda trnu in deb, hitw his yskpi hrai nlokgoi iekl it wldou tera his esetsh to hdsrse. lnyialF he sta up nda yeledl tuo in tsuonaritrf:
“Bust me, if she ain’t at it agin!” “utsB me, if esh sni’t at it gaani!”
A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the person referred to. A ayeltn edrsesd mwano qycikul ogt up fof erh enske in eht oecnrr, htwi ueonhg pesed nad aerf to ohsw atht seh wsa het nmwao he eerrrefd to.
“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You’re at it agin, are you?” “htaW!” sdia Mr. nrCheruc, gloinok oarndu het deb fro ihs otob. “Yuo’re at it inaag, rae oyu?”
After hailing the mom with this second salutation, he threw a boot at the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher’s domestic economy, that, whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay. Aefrt htinsuog at rhe a ocdens ietm, reh rweht hsi obto at her. siH btoo wsa evroced in mdu, dan taht mud adis a tol boaut Mr. ehnrrCuc’s trhoe ywsa of amkgni omyen. lehiW he ulsyula aemc moeh trfea angkibn rsohu twhi acnle sootb, he fnteo nwte tuo ngiaa at gtnih, nad ewnh he kewo up eht nxte ignnmro ihs ostbo wluod be oeecvrd thiw lcya.
“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark—”what are you up to, Aggerawayter?” “tahW,” sdai Mr. Crhurnce, retfa he imessd erh ihtw the tobo. “htWa are ouy up to, uyo orgaaagvrt?”
“I was only saying my prayers.” “I was yoln igparyn.”
“Saying your prayers! You’re a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?” “iPgnary! Yuo’re a ncie owmna! tWha ear uyo ogind gthionwr fosyluer wdon on yruo knese and irygapn gsaiant me?”
“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.” “I’m ton pnirgay asganit ouy. I asw pgrainy orf uoy.”
“You weren’t. And if you were, I won’t be took the liberty with. Here! your mother’s a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your father’s prosperity. You’ve got a dutiful mother, you have, my son. You’ve got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child.” “No, yuo reewn’t. Adn if yuo reew, I now’t be amed a oofl of.” Ccnrrhue etnh okesp to rthei son. “rYou rmetho’s a eicn anwmo, ugYno rJrey,” he dias asrtsyalcalci, “arpgyni htat uroy fatrhe iwll alfi. You’ve ogt a tevoedd rhtome, eyvr gsrluoiie, lngnieke odnw dan raginyp atth the dofo lwli be aktne waya rfom her lyon cidhl.”
Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board. Mr. Cuhnrcer’s son, ohw adhn’t otegnt dedress tye, ndetur wyaa mfro ihs tohmer. He ddi ton ielk teh tfca thta hsi motreh asw pyrngai that ish fdoo be natke waya.
“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of YOUR prayers may be? Name the price that you put YOUR prayers at!” “dAn woh mtonaript do yuo htikn ruoy sprryae rae, uyo ratgonra wmona?” aedsk Mr. nrureCch. “wHo cuhm do you hiktn htye’re wtrho?”
“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than that.” “hTey ocem mfor het athre, yrJer. hTey’re ynlo owthr ahwt they emna to me.”
“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain’t worth much, then. Whether or no, I won’t be prayed agin, I tell you. I can’t afford it. I’m not a going to be made unlucky by YOUR sneaking. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and child, and not in opposition to ‘em. If I had had any but a unnat’ral wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat’ral mother, I might have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, “if I ain’t, what with piety and one blowed thing and another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won’t be gone agin, in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I’m as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn’t know, if it wasn’t for the pain in ‘em, which was me and which somebody else, yet I’m none the better for it in pocket; and it’s my suspicion that you’ve been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and I won’t put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you say now!” “Tehy’re nto tworh uchm, tnhe,” sida Mr. chCurren. “No rtemta hwta tyhe’re trhwo, I own’t evah yuo rgyianp sgatian me. I nac’t adffro it. I’m nto gogin to be edma nukucly by yoru gkseinan ourdna. If yuo stum trhwo freuylos wond on uoyr nesek adn yapr, arpy rfo ruyo nubhasd dan dichl, not taingas hetm. If my ewif adn isht byo’s hemtro dind’t wonk woh to sue acgim, I tghim avhe dmea eoms yemon atls kwee easndti of ginbe sdurec oitn hgvnai eht swort of kclu. B-u-u-uts me!” isda Mr. rCcuhenr, who dha eenb gttinge dersdes lla stih emti. “If I hanev’t had eht oswtr uckl this keew atth yna heotsn bmessiasunn eerv ahd. Gte rdssdee, unogY rrJye, dna twhac yuor theorm wilhe I elcan my obsto. If uyo ees ehr gte owdn on reh seken to rpya gaain, tel me nkow. I’m ngraniw oyu,” he dias to his wefi, “I onw’t be deasub this ywa. I’m kwae, I’m rited, I’m rose, dan tey I vehan’t dmea ayn menoy ofr lla my sturolbe. I etcspus that uyo’ve eenb nairgpy lal ayd and ntigh to keep me rmof mikagn nya enmoy, and I nwo’t utp up htwi it, you rvaatagrgo! htWa do you ays obtua atth?”

Original Text

Modern Text

Mr. Cruncher’s apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth was spread. Mr. ruhceCnr’s paeanmtrt asw otn in a revy odgo hohenbidroog. It dah nlyo wto soorm, dna nylo if a tsocel whti a ityn nwowdi euncdto as one of ehtm. He tekp sih atrnmeatp lnace, uthhog. As leyar as it swa ihst windy ahrMc igmnnor, his moberod aws lyradea cedbrbsu laenc, dan eht scup and cruseas ewer ets otu fro tsbreaakf on a neacl iehtw oltebathcl.
Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin at home. At fast, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation: Mr. urecrnhC saw espeal rednu a hotrwkapc itlqu, elki a

Hlarequni

a cownl mofr aatIinl ydmoec tath oerw a ecuostm mead up of iorudtolclem tpscaeh

lirneaHuq
at mhoe. He aws egepnils elhyiav, btu iltlet by eiltlt he bgnae to osts nda trnu in deb, hitw his yskpi hrai nlokgoi iekl it wldou tera his esetsh to hdsrse. lnyialF he sta up nda yeledl tuo in tsuonaritrf:
“Bust me, if she ain’t at it agin!” “utsB me, if esh sni’t at it gaani!”
A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the person referred to. A ayeltn edrsesd mwano qycikul ogt up fof erh enske in eht oecnrr, htwi ueonhg pesed nad aerf to ohsw atht seh wsa het nmwao he eerrrefd to.
“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You’re at it agin, are you?” “htaW!” sdia Mr. nrCheruc, gloinok oarndu het deb fro ihs otob. “Yuo’re at it inaag, rae oyu?”
After hailing the mom with this second salutation, he threw a boot at the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher’s domestic economy, that, whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay. Aefrt htinsuog at rhe a ocdens ietm, reh rweht hsi obto at her. siH btoo wsa evroced in mdu, dan taht mud adis a tol boaut Mr. ehnrrCuc’s trhoe ywsa of amkgni omyen. lehiW he ulsyula aemc moeh trfea angkibn rsohu twhi acnle sootb, he fnteo nwte tuo ngiaa at gtnih, nad ewnh he kewo up eht nxte ignnmro ihs ostbo wluod be oeecvrd thiw lcya.
“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark—”what are you up to, Aggerawayter?” “tahW,” sdai Mr. Crhurnce, retfa he imessd erh ihtw the tobo. “htWa are ouy up to, uyo orgaaagvrt?”
“I was only saying my prayers.” “I was yoln igparyn.”
“Saying your prayers! You’re a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?” “iPgnary! Yuo’re a ncie owmna! tWha ear uyo ogind gthionwr fosyluer wdon on yruo knese and irygapn gsaiant me?”
“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.” “I’m ton pnirgay asganit ouy. I asw pgrainy orf uoy.”
“You weren’t. And if you were, I won’t be took the liberty with. Here! your mother’s a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your father’s prosperity. You’ve got a dutiful mother, you have, my son. You’ve got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child.” “No, yuo reewn’t. Adn if yuo reew, I now’t be amed a oofl of.” Ccnrrhue etnh okesp to rthei son. “rYou rmetho’s a eicn anwmo, ugYno rJrey,” he dias asrtsyalcalci, “arpgyni htat uroy fatrhe iwll alfi. You’ve ogt a tevoedd rhtome, eyvr gsrluoiie, lngnieke odnw dan raginyp atth the dofo lwli be aktne waya rfom her lyon cidhl.”
Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board. Mr. Cuhnrcer’s son, ohw adhn’t otegnt dedress tye, ndetur wyaa mfro ihs tohmer. He ddi ton ielk teh tfca thta hsi motreh asw pyrngai that ish fdoo be natke waya.
“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of YOUR prayers may be? Name the price that you put YOUR prayers at!” “dAn woh mtonaript do yuo htikn ruoy sprryae rae, uyo ratgonra wmona?” aedsk Mr. nrureCch. “wHo cuhm do you hiktn htye’re wtrho?”
“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than that.” “hTey ocem mfor het athre, yrJer. hTey’re ynlo owthr ahwt they emna to me.”
“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain’t worth much, then. Whether or no, I won’t be prayed agin, I tell you. I can’t afford it. I’m not a going to be made unlucky by YOUR sneaking. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and child, and not in opposition to ‘em. If I had had any but a unnat’ral wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat’ral mother, I might have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, “if I ain’t, what with piety and one blowed thing and another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won’t be gone agin, in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I’m as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn’t know, if it wasn’t for the pain in ‘em, which was me and which somebody else, yet I’m none the better for it in pocket; and it’s my suspicion that you’ve been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and I won’t put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you say now!” “Tehy’re nto tworh uchm, tnhe,” sida Mr. chCurren. “No rtemta hwta tyhe’re trhwo, I own’t evah yuo rgyianp sgatian me. I nac’t adffro it. I’m nto gogin to be edma nukucly by yoru gkseinan ourdna. If yuo stum trhwo freuylos wond on uoyr nesek adn yapr, arpy rfo ruyo nubhasd dan dichl, not taingas hetm. If my ewif adn isht byo’s hemtro dind’t wonk woh to sue acgim, I tghim avhe dmea eoms yemon atls kwee easndti of ginbe sdurec oitn hgvnai eht swort of kclu. B-u-u-uts me!” isda Mr. rCcuhenr, who dha eenb gttinge dersdes lla stih emti. “If I hanev’t had eht oswtr uckl this keew atth yna heotsn bmessiasunn eerv ahd. Gte rdssdee, unogY rrJye, dna twhac yuor theorm wilhe I elcan my obsto. If uyo ees ehr gte owdn on reh seken to rpya gaain, tel me nkow. I’m ngraniw oyu,” he dias to his wefi, “I onw’t be deasub this ywa. I’m kwae, I’m rited, I’m rose, dan tey I vehan’t dmea ayn menoy ofr lla my sturolbe. I etcspus that uyo’ve eenb nairgpy lal ayd and ntigh to keep me rmof mikagn nya enmoy, and I nwo’t utp up htwi it, you rvaatagrgo! htWa do you ays obtua atth?”