If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. "This she-devil has got hold of the sack. She sighed with relief. He went on with intense urgency. It mattered not whether she flunked the year as she would soon be gone. I love some one else. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. I am wondering whether it would not be better to tell your husband everything. "Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. He was pretty successful in Manchester,—a town which may be said to have been the head-quarters of the disaffected.
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