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In my mind's eye, I have the sea in a perpetual state of smallpox; and the chalk running downhill like town milk.

For there was something about the taste of the town milk that scunnered us—Freddie especially being more delicately stomached than I. Here, too, was a red-cheeked serving maid who provoked us—but more especially poor Fred, who asked nothing better than that the wench should let him alone.