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A collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s short fiction, ordered by date of publication.

Page 522 of 1087
Table of Contents

Three Sundays in a Week

you know, uncle⁠—in short, when will it be most convenient for yourself, that the wedding shall⁠—shall⁠—come off, you know?”

“Come off, you scoundrel!⁠—what do you mean by that?⁠—Better wait till it goes on.”

“Ha! ha! ha!⁠—he! he! he!⁠—hi! hi! hi!⁠—ho! ho! ho!⁠—hu! hu! hu!⁠—oh, that’s good!⁠—oh, that’s capital⁠— such a wit! But all we want just now , you know, uncle, is that you would indicate the time precisely.”

“Ah!⁠—precisely?”

“Yes, uncle⁠—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to yourself.”

“Wouldn’t it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random⁠—some time within a year or so, for example?⁠— must I say precisely?”

“ If you please, uncle⁠—precisely.”

“Well, then, Bobby, my boy⁠—you’re a fine fellow, aren’t you?⁠—since you will have the exact time I’ll⁠—why I’ll oblige you for once.”

“Dear uncle!”

“Hush, sir!” [drowning my voice]⁠—“I’ll oblige you for once. You shall have my consent⁠—and the plum , we mus’n’t forget the plum⁠—let me see! when shall it be? Today’s Sunday⁠—isn’t it? Well, then, you shall be married precisely⁠— precisely , now mind!⁠— when three Sundays come together in a week ! Do you hear me, sir! What are you gaping at? I say, you shall have Kate and her plum when three Sundays come together in a week⁠—but not till then⁠—you young scapegrace⁠—not till then, if I die for it. You know me⁠— I’m a man of my word ⁠—now be off!” Here he swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the room in despair.

A very “fine old English gentleman,” was my granduncle Rumgudgeon, but unlike him of the song, he had his weak points. He was a little, pursy,

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