The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things. Manning, “they’re a dream.
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