“We are Mr. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. He cherished her. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't.
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