"As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. "Done!" cried Shotbolt. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. Then making a pretence of stooping to rearrange her flowing train, she glanced at Anna, and half stopped in her progress down the room. The ring's yours, and you're mine. A physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty animal, and it must be owned the general formation of his features favoured such a comparison. She thought me— filthy. ’ ‘Perfectly correct, my boy. We mustn’t make it so.
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