‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. Her pa was only the smithy. Though within the last two days he had committed several heinous offences, and one of a darker dye than any with which the reader has been made acquainted, his breast was not yet so callous as to be wholly insensible to the stings of conscience. It just made me mad to the boiling point.
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