The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. Very likely by this time the whole truth is known. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. ‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. "God in Heaven bless you, unhappy boy!" cried. ” He shrugged his shoulders.
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