" "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. ‘He’s already spoken for, Melusine. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. Anna raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for bringing up her son —perhaps, I ought rather to say your son, Mr. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home.
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