” For a moment Mr. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. Or run me through. Sir Rowland then fell. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. “But your hair,” he gasped.
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