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Sheppard. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep. I tell you what, Mr. E. "Where is he?" he cried. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now.
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