“You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. " "Farewell, Jack," cried twenty voices. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. He thought her only an orphan in search of her English relatives. "Hell-hounds!" he cried; "release me!" At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave.
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