” “Act two,” she continued. "Crime upon crime. " "My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm at the woollen-draper. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave.
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