A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. It isn’t such fun as it seems. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. Despite him, it was the beauty that she had inherited from her mother they had used to gain the betrothal, and it had not been easy. But I don’t want to.
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