‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence whatever, till I call. E. My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about.
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