"Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. “All these days I have taken her for you. I got a rusty bolt cutter.
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