“You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. What I said about your brat was all stuff. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him.
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