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Oliver's eyes turned upward at the master, as he asked in a tiny little voice, "Please, sah? I would surely enjoy some moh..."
The master was a flabberbegast... flabbergasted at the little imp's request. "No! Tis not in the realm of possibilities! You wan' moh? No one gets moh, tis the Orphanage Law of 1847!"
Oliver was left unsure of foot by the reference, and, being an orphan, decided it best to abstain from a lengthy discourse regarding the relative merits of the British poor law. Oh, how Oliver suffered. He could only imagine the poetry of sensation he might chance upon should perhaps some more gruel come into his possession. Oh how Oliver dreamed of the day of getting moh, and being able to eat as much gruel as his tiny little frame could withhold.