F. Sheppard reached the debtor's garrison. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. " "I am one-and-twenty," observed Jack. The gate was opened; the coffin brought into the churchyard; and Jack, whose eyes were filled with tears, saw Mr. Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to regard it. All the best novels have been written by women, and yet see how men sneer at the lady novelist still! There’s only one way to get on for a woman, and that is to please men. Mrs. Rousing himself, he went to the door.
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