The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. The other lay unconscious in a heap. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. On this second excursion, forewarned, she would use no light and keep as quiet as a mouse, she vowed, and thus refrain from attracting the attention of the militia at the gates. I wouldn't have him see me in this state for the world.
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