“It is just six o’clock now. And you have to thank her presence, hot-headed boy, that I do not chastise your insolence as it deserves. My very sentences stumble and give way. It has come,—and sooner than you expected. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. She leaned back in her chair.
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