" "Hold your tongue, sirrah," rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, "and mind what I tell you. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Then he threw the letter at me. "Tell me the truth, I implore you," cried Thames. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. But I vowed that Ruth should never suffer the way I did—and do.
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