Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. CHAPTER XIII. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. ” “I don’t care how we meet,” she said. And I think I will indeed blow off your imbecile head. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes.
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