" Prudence felt the hands stiffen oddly; and again the thought came to her that perhaps this poor child's father had once been, perhaps still was, in the same category as this Taber. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. Her disapproval was obvious enough. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it. “There is my aunt,” she said. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it.
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