Well, I'd got to talk so nice it wasn't no comfort--I'd got to go up in the attic and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth, or I'd a died, Tom.
Bé, havia de parlar amb tanta gentilesa que no tenia consol: no tenia més remei que pujar a la golfa i renegar una mica cada dia per dar-me gustet a la boca, o bé hauria mort.