"Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. She felt flattered. "I assure you, Sir, when I left him an hour ago, it was locked. T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. The conditions are such as I think you will recognize the justice of. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers.
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