He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. "You soon shall," rejoined Sheppard. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. S.
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