" "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. F. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. The night was now profoundly dark. Also he had said—laughing in that way with his eyes which made a flutter in her chest— that Prudence will find an Englishman to marry her. “How well and jolly you must be feeling.
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