"Mercy!" screamed Mrs. Now if she sent fifteen pounds the suggestion that she had spent a five-pound note in the meanwhile would be irresistible. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard.
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