CHAPTER XIII. "He shan't go," cried Edgeworth Bess, holding him by the other hand. ” He shook her diminutive hand. I thought that he was dead. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Maggot.
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