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So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. She wedged the towel between her legs. Three times she escaped. "I've just recollected that my husband left a key with me, which he charged me to give you when I could find an opportunity. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. ” She could not go on, for she was laughing and crying at the same time.
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