human
I'm glad it's all over, said the footman, waving a cigar stolen from the box of his master.
gpt
Funerals don't suit me.
human
Yet we must all 'ave one of our own some day, said the cook, who was plainly under the influence of gin;
gpt
An' she with 'er millions, growled a red-faced coachman.
human
Wot rot!
gpt
Come now, John, you know Miss Sophy was fond of her father
human
I dunno why, said John.
gpt
Master was as cold as ice, an' as silent as 'arf a dozen graves.
human
Oh, Mr. John, don't talk of graves, please! I've 'ad the nightmare over 'em.
gpt
Don't put on airs an' make out as 'ow you've got nerves, Cammelliar, put in the cook tearfully.
human
It's me as 'as 'em--I've a bundle of 'em--real shivers. Ah, well! we're cut down like green bay-trees, to be sure. Pass that bottle, Mr. Thomas.