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This village Inn had assumed, on being established, an uncommon
sign. It was called The Nutmeg-Grater. And underneath that
household word, was inscribed, up in the tree, on the same flaming
board, and in the like golden characters, By Benjamin Britain.
At a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face,
you might have known that it was no other than Benjamin Britain
himself who stood in the doorway - reasonably changed by time, but
for the better; a very comfortable host indeed.
'Mrs. B.,' said Mr. Britain, looking down the road, 'is rather
late. It's tea-time.'
As there was no Mrs. Britain coming, he strolled leisurely out into
the road and looked up at the house, very much to his satisfaction.
'It's just the sort of house,' said Benjamin, 'I should wish to
stop at, if I didn't keep it.'
Then, he strolled towards the garden-paling, and took a look at the
dahlias. They looked over at him, with a helpless drowsy hanging
of their heads: which bobbed again, as the heavy drops of wet
dripped off them.
'You must be looked after,' said Benjamin. 'Memorandum, not to
forget to tell her so. She's a long time coming!'
Mr. Britain's better half seemed to be by so very much his better
half, that his own moiety of himself was utterly cast away and
helpless without her.
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