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207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco. I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly.
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