"You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Spurling, indignantly; "but I can tell you we have. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. "May I be cursed," muttered Sheppard, as he slunk away with (as the woollendraper pleasantly observed) 'a couple of boxes in charge,' "if ever I try to be honest again!" "Take a little toasted cheese with the swig, Mr.
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