” Mr. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything. Maybe it’s his loss. They had chosen to deliberately and wickedly insult a lady who had done her best to entertain them for many weeks. In a few minutes after the delivery of this note he will be in Newgate. Mrs.
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