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She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you. We shall both, I hope, live to enjoy our shares—long after Thames Darrell is forgotten—ha! ha! A third of your estate I accept. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate.
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