Now, tell me, my dear, I said, what are you crying about?

About the years that are gone, Mr. Betteredge," says Rosanna quietly. My past life still comes back to me sometimes.

Come, come, my girl, I said, your past life is all sponged out. Why can't you forget it?

"She took me by one of the lappets of my coat. I am a slovenly old man, and a good deal of my meat and drink gets splashed about on my clothes. Sometimes one of the women, and sometimes another, cleans me of my grease. The day before, Roseanna had taken out a spot for me on the lappet of my coat, with a new composition, warranted to remove anything. The grease was gone, but there was a little dull place left on the nap of the cloth where the grease had been. The girl pointed to that place, and shook here head.

The stain is taken off, she said. But the place shows, Mr. Betteredge--the place shows!

Author: Wilkie Collins

Now, tell me, my dear, I said, what are you crying about?<br /><br />About the years that are gone, Mr. Betteredge," says Rosanna quietly. My past life still comes back to me sometimes.<br /><br />Come, come, my girl, I said, your past life is all sponged out. Why can't you forget it?<br /><br />"She took me by one of the lappets of my coat. I am a slovenly old man, and a good deal of my meat and drink gets splashed about on my clothes. Sometimes one of the women, and sometimes another, cleans me of my grease. The day before, Roseanna had taken out a spot for me on the lappet of my coat, with a new composition, warranted to remove anything. The grease was gone, but there was a little dull place left on the nap of the cloth where the grease had been. The girl pointed to that place, and shook here head.<br /><br />The stain is taken off, she said. But the place shows, Mr. Betteredge--the place shows! - Wilkie Collins



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