“It’s my fault. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. ‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. ” “I think so,” said Ann Veronica, and colored. “I don’t want children, Lucy. Go off and live together—until we can marry.
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