"No offence, I hope, my dear Mrs. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. "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. " "Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. " Ah Cum lent an ear covertly. “No,” she answered. E. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles.
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