‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. Mr. 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. She found herself trying on the baubles he brought home, placing the silver rings upon her slim fingers, knowing that he would take up her hand and kiss it. ‘You have come to me in place of Gérard? But how is it you will help me?’ ‘That’s all right and tight. But I may yet live to thwart them.
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