“I wrote it for you. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it. His face fell. Beauty has bloomed and faded. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. " "No, no! I have had wicked thoughts.
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