"Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. So far as regards his attire, Baptist was not seen to advantage.
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