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“Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. " Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her. "Flight is still left me," replied Trenchard. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold. " Not a little perplexed by the mysterious object she had seen, Rachel left the room, and, shortly afterwards returned with the materials of a tolerably good supper;—to wit, a couple of cold fowls, a tongue, the best part of a sirloin of beef, a jar of pickles, and two small dishes of pastry. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration.
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