C. Mr. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. ‘Something for you, Lucy?’ he asked, interrupting a heated argument that had obviously been in progress for some little time before their arrival. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. " "Quite natural! Never forgive an injury!—I never do!—ha! ha!" "Really, Mr.
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