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Mr. Tod was coming up Bull Banks, and he was in the very worst of
tempers. First he had been upset by breaking the plate. It was his
own fault; but it was a china plate, the last of the dinner service
that had belonged to his grandmother, old Vixen Tod. Then the
midges had been very bad. And he had failed to catch a hen
pheasant on her nest; and it had contained only five eggs, two of
them addled. Mr. Tod had had an unsatisfactory night. |
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As usual, when out of humour, he determined to move house. First
he tried the pollard willow, but it was damp; and the otters had left
a dead fish near it. Mr. Tod likes nobody's leavings but his own.
He made his way up the hill; his temper was not improved by
noticing unmistakable marks of badger. No one else grubs up the
moss so wantonly as Tommy Brock. |
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