If nothing else had clinched that, the purse had. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. Mr.
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