So sure as I came home from
my work on these occasions, so sure was my wife to call to me up the
kitchen stairs, and to say that, after my brutal treatment of her,
she hadn't the heart to cook me my dinner. I put up with it for some
time--just as you are putting up with it now from Miss Rachel. At
last my patience wore out. I went downstairs, and I took Mrs.
Betteredge--affectionately, you understand--up in my arms, and carried
her, holus-bolus, into the best parlour where she received her company.
I said 'That's the right place for you, my dear,' and so went back to
the kitchen. I locked myself in, and took off my coat, and turned up my
shirt-sleeves, and cooked my own dinner. When it was done, I served it
up in my best manner, and enjoyed it most heartily. I had my pipe and
my drop of grog afterwards; and then I cleared the table, and washed the
crockery, and cleaned the knives and forks, and put the things away,
and swept up the hearth. When things were as bright and clean again, as
bright and clean could be, I opened the door and let Mrs. Betteredge in.
'I've had my dinner, my dear,' I said; 'and I hope you will find that I
have left the kitchen all that your fondest wishes can desire.
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