Stop for us at the Laurels, about eleven, or p'r'aps I'll stroll over and get you.
We'll land that stake; an' p'raps the sharp division'll take a tumble.
I tell you p'intedly you cyarnt nevah b'lieve what you heahs.
He can't marry Miss P——, nor yet her fortune, nor ever shall!
All this you was on the p'int of losin' through bein' slow on your feet.
"Love doesn't begin ...