They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. She did not forge a note. The Chapel was situated in the south-east angle of the jail; the ordinary at the time of this history being the Reverend Thomas Purney; the deputy chaplain, Mr. “Earning a salary!” “You’re like a Princess in Exile!” he repeated, overruling her. He thought it best to let the matter drop. “By-the-bye,” he said, presently, “your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t she? I saw the notice in the papers.
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