You are very short, Mr. Shandy ,—said my mother.
Humph! quoth my father to himself, a second time: in muttering which, he plucked his pillow a little further from my mother’s—and turning about again, there was an end of the debate for three minutes and a half.
⸺When he gets these breeches made, cried my father in a higher tone, he’ll look like a beast in ’em.
He will be very awkward in them at first, replied my mother.⸺
⸺And ’twill be lucky, if that’s the worst on’t, added my father.
It will be very lucky, answered my mother.
I suppose, replied my father,—making some pause first,—he’ll be exactly like other people’s children.⸺
Exactly, said my mother.⸻
⸺Though I shall be sorry for that, added my father: and so the debate stopp’d again.
⸺They should be of leather, said my father, turning him about again.—
They will last him, said my mother, the longest.
But he can have no linings to ’em, replied my father.⸻
He cannot, said my mother.
’Twere better to have them of fustian, quoth my father.
Nothing can be better, quoth my mother.⸻