sort of Magnetickal Stupor, as Mesmerites might term it. More than once, Mason looks ready to leap to his feet and blurt something better kept till later in the Evening. At last the Dog recognizes him, tho' now he is too key'd up to speak with any Coherence. After allowing him to rattle for a full minute, the Dog sighs deeply. "See me later, out in back."
"It shouldn't take but a moment," Mason tells Dixon. "I'll be all right by myself, if there's something you'd rather be doing...."
With no appetite for the giant Mutton Chop cooling in front of him, Mason mopishly now wraps it and stows it in his Coat. Looking up, he notes Dixon, mouth cheerfully stuff'd, beaming too tolerantly for his Comfort.
"No,— not for me,— did you think I was taking it for myself?— 'tis for the Learned Dog, rather,— like, I don't know, perhaps a Bouquet sent to an Actress one admires, a nice Chop can never go too far off the Mark."
Starting a beat late, "Why aye, 'tis a...a great World, for fair...? and Practices vary, and one Man certainly may not comment upon—
"What...are you saying?"
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