I’m not that sort I quite agree. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. Wood's at Dollis Hill, wholly unsuspicious of any designs against him, and, in fact, entirely ignorant of your being acquainted with his return, or even of his existence. I don’t love you. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves.
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