" "What for? What do you want of them?" "Why, they are … yours. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. God knows how you did it.
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