She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. “I do mean that,” she declared. I hope you won’t mind if I say first that I think it does me an extraordinary honor that you should think of any one like myself so highly and seriously, and, secondly, that I wish it had not been written. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. “G. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. You can have no shecrets from me.
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