But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was. . ” This made her even angrier, so she stopped speaking to him for a week. Perhaps it was loneliness. I'll tell you what.
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