His face was very serious. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Now, I'll be getting along. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt.
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