Spurlock mused over the previous night. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. “I suppose he’s frightfully clever,” said Miss Klegg. " "You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. Figg?" asked Gay.
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