Having drunk as much as he thought prudent, and thanked his unknown friend for his attention, Jack again lay down on the straw, and indulged himself with another nap, intending to get up as soon as it was perfectly dark. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. They were filthy after the burial. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield.
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