" "That boy'll never rest till he finds his vay to Bridewell," observed Sharples. 8 or 1. . “I lied, as I would have committed a murder, or done any evil deed sooner than lose you. On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. You want industry—you want steadiness. Already Cosette was her chosen friend. And all the third act is love-sick music. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. ” “Well,” she said, “has there not been some reason for this? The likeness to Annabel could scarcely have escaped remark.
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