But one day he came to me. "Poor Mrs. Marina doted over her pregnant daughter, adorned in fine brocades, reassuring her that it was certain to be a either a baby boy or a girl of such great beauty she would eclipse them both. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. "Certainly not," replied Gay. I've told you about him; and you wrote a shrewd yarn on the subject. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper.
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