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And now she had sent Jack away. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. But you must allow me to observe, my good Sir, that you're wholly in the wrong respecting my friend. The truth was impossible, indecent. And let ush go back to our brandewyn, and hollandsche genever. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. Its very calmness was frightful. ‘Come,’ she called.
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