“Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. I think too much about myself. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter.
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