He has no imagination, no real generosity. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. But no; she must step warily. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. "In case he should consent—" "He never will," interrupted Winifred.
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