It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. He was placed in a coach, handcuffed, and heavily fettered, and guarded by a vast posse of officers to Temple Bar, where a fresh relay of constables escorted him to Westminster. His eyes were set too close together. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. Pretend to weep both of you as loudly as you can.
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