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From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the bed. ugoYn yrrJe asw wnoke up fmro ihs diudtbsre slepe in ish letitl mroo by eth dusno of shi eafhrt in hte yiflma oorm. It saw trfea rbkadaey adn ebrfoe sinesur. hSmtnegio had engo rognw rfo ish ahetrf. At teals atht’s ahwt nYgou erJry assumde, sicne he was glhoind sMr. nCehurrc by eth rsea nda knkognic the bcka of her daeh agtisan the ehddarbao of irhte ebd.
“I dotl yuo I oudwl,” said Mr. hrneCucr, “dan I idd.” “I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored. “ryrJe, yJrre, rJrye!” hsi iefw gdgebe.
“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don’t you?” “uoY yapr htat I’ll afil in my bueisnss ealdsgin,” aids Jrery, “dan ehtn my rnrtpsea dna I uesrff. ouY’re doppssue to roohn dna oeyb oryu bhundas. hyW eth leidv now’t uoy?”
“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears. “I ryt to be a odog wife, ryrJe,” het ropo amown uradeg, gnyrci.
“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband’s business? Is it honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?” “Is it neigb a dogo wfie to begaaots ryou hasndbu’s isbesuns? Is it ognrnhoi yruo bhdunsa to idonrhos hsi busssein? Is it byinego ruyo bhdausn to yboesdi him on eth ranitotmp sectjbu of his okwr?”
“You hadn’t taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.” “uYo andh’t tdetars tsih tbrierel kwor kcba nehw I adme htoes vswo, yrrJe.”
“It’s enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations when he took to his trade or when he didn’t. A honouring and obeying wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If you’re a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have no more nat’ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.” “ouY dluhos be aesidftsi to be raermid to an ostnhe nambisnsesu,” pnaedsp Mr. cheuCnrr. “Dno’t cnnecro uoyr eeflma ndmi itwh gthuoths bauot hnew he asw gndio shi boj dan newh he wnas’t. A ifwe ohw odenhor dna eebody hre nbhdusa ulwod evael his rowk oneal heegotalrt. You lcal sflreouy a srugeiiol wmnao? If uoy’re a sieiguolr onawm, gevi me an ugisroeiirl aonwm! You vaeh no eorm rualnat esnse of ytdu anht teh mttoob of het hesTma veirR ahs of a noodew aemb, nad jtsu klie that ebam, semo neses deesn to be kdeckon onti yuo.”
The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in the honest tradesman’s kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay down too, and fell asleep again. ehyT draegu ytqeiul, ituln Mr. neurhCcr ieckkd off shi yalc-deroevc obost dna idel nowd on the ofrol. efAtr gtanki a eosnvur ekep at him nyilg on sih ackb, hwit sih urst-vcreedo nsdha erudn his dhea for a lolpiw, uYngo rerJy yal dwno oot and fell palese anagi.
There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his ostensible calling. ehTer aws no fish ofr aarsfbtke, or mhcu of tiagynhn seel. Mr. huerrCnc asw in a bda modo, dan he ptke an oirn pto ldi eran him in caes he wsa Mrs. hrnreucC ysinag rgace nda awdetn to owhrt it at hre. He dhubers shi ahri nda sdehwa up at teh usalu mtie and tenw off to rowk ihwt his nso.
Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father’s side along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day, and his qualms were gone with the night—in which particulars it is not improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London, that fine morning. noYug rJyer dealwk ithw teh oltso rndue hsi ram idsebe his tehfar. yeTh keldaw naogl eFlte ttreSe, which aws usnyn dna wcderod. ougnY reryJ aws yrve refdfenti athn he dah been eth thgin foebre whne he hda run waay rofm teh cffnoi ogtruhh het erankdss leoan. He wsa sphra ainag in eht ahlidytg, nda his esfar adh lfte tiwh eht hgitn. Ist eryv lebsoisp atth orhet eplepo on etFel tteerS and in eotrh atspr of nodnLo eftl teh emsa ayw thta utfaielub imnognr.
“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep at arm’s length and to have the stool well between them: “what’s a Resurrection-Man?” “aFhtre,” asid uoYgn reJyr as ehty wldkae ongla tgotrehe. He dame urse to epke ish rehtaf at mra’s ghnetl nda to ldoh eth ltoos bweteen meht. “htWa’s a sunrrercioet nma?”

Original Text

Modern Text

From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the bed. ugoYn yrrJe asw wnoke up fmro ihs diudtbsre slepe in ish letitl mroo by eth dusno of shi eafhrt in hte yiflma oorm. It saw trfea rbkadaey adn ebrfoe sinesur. hSmtnegio had engo rognw rfo ish ahetrf. At teals atht’s ahwt nYgou erJry assumde, sicne he was glhoind sMr. nCehurrc by eth rsea nda knkognic the bcka of her daeh agtisan the ehddarbao of irhte ebd.
“I dotl yuo I oudwl,” said Mr. hrneCucr, “dan I idd.” “I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored. “ryrJe, yJrre, rJrye!” hsi iefw gdgebe.
“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don’t you?” “uoY yapr htat I’ll afil in my bueisnss ealdsgin,” aids Jrery, “dan ehtn my rnrtpsea dna I uesrff. ouY’re doppssue to roohn dna oeyb oryu bhundas. hyW eth leidv now’t uoy?”
“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears. “I ryt to be a odog wife, ryrJe,” het ropo amown uradeg, gnyrci.
“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband’s business? Is it honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?” “Is it neigb a dogo wfie to begaaots ryou hasndbu’s isbesuns? Is it ognrnhoi yruo bhdunsa to idonrhos hsi busssein? Is it byinego ruyo bhdausn to yboesdi him on eth ranitotmp sectjbu of his okwr?”
“You hadn’t taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.” “uYo andh’t tdetars tsih tbrierel kwor kcba nehw I adme htoes vswo, yrrJe.”
“It’s enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations when he took to his trade or when he didn’t. A honouring and obeying wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If you’re a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have no more nat’ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.” “ouY dluhos be aesidftsi to be raermid to an ostnhe nambisnsesu,” pnaedsp Mr. cheuCnrr. “Dno’t cnnecro uoyr eeflma ndmi itwh gthuoths bauot hnew he asw gndio shi boj dan newh he wnas’t. A ifwe ohw odenhor dna eebody hre nbhdusa ulwod evael his rowk oneal heegotalrt. You lcal sflreouy a srugeiiol wmnao? If uoy’re a sieiguolr onawm, gevi me an ugisroeiirl aonwm! You vaeh no eorm rualnat esnse of ytdu anht teh mttoob of het hesTma veirR ahs of a noodew aemb, nad jtsu klie that ebam, semo neses deesn to be kdeckon onti yuo.”
The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in the honest tradesman’s kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay down too, and fell asleep again. ehyT draegu ytqeiul, ituln Mr. neurhCcr ieckkd off shi yalc-deroevc obost dna idel nowd on the ofrol. efAtr gtanki a eosnvur ekep at him nyilg on sih ackb, hwit sih urst-vcreedo nsdha erudn his dhea for a lolpiw, uYngo rerJy yal dwno oot and fell palese anagi.
There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his ostensible calling. ehTer aws no fish ofr aarsfbtke, or mhcu of tiagynhn seel. Mr. huerrCnc asw in a bda modo, dan he ptke an oirn pto ldi eran him in caes he wsa Mrs. hrnreucC ysinag rgace nda awdetn to owhrt it at hre. He dhubers shi ahri nda sdehwa up at teh usalu mtie and tenw off to rowk ihwt his nso.
Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father’s side along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day, and his qualms were gone with the night—in which particulars it is not improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London, that fine morning. noYug rJyer dealwk ithw teh oltso rndue hsi ram idsebe his tehfar. yeTh keldaw naogl eFlte ttreSe, which aws usnyn dna wcderod. ougnY reryJ aws yrve refdfenti athn he dah been eth thgin foebre whne he hda run waay rofm teh cffnoi ogtruhh het erankdss leoan. He wsa sphra ainag in eht ahlidytg, nda his esfar adh lfte tiwh eht hgitn. Ist eryv lebsoisp atth orhet eplepo on etFel tteerS and in eotrh atspr of nodnLo eftl teh emsa ayw thta utfaielub imnognr.
“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep at arm’s length and to have the stool well between them: “what’s a Resurrection-Man?” “aFhtre,” asid uoYgn reJyr as ehty wldkae ongla tgotrehe. He dame urse to epke ish rehtaf at mra’s ghnetl nda to ldoh eth ltoos bweteen meht. “htWa’s a sunrrercioet nma?”