A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. ‘Yes, I know. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. “I will send you a copy,” Mr. ” He shook her diminutive hand. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. Her companion was a person of no inferior condition. "Mr.
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