" "Thank'ee, Sir," grinned Sheppard. " The manager began some computations. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. I sha'n't utter a word. And I don’t. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. . "How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He crossed back to Roding and said low-voiced.
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