"And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o' yours. " "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. ‘And since the entire company and Pottiswick himself were unable to find hide nor hair of the infernal French female—’ ‘English, Hilary,’ Gerald reminded him. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work.
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