Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. " "It's all right, pals," cried Baptist, in a loud tone; "the gentlemen and I have settled matters. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. ’ ‘Bravo,’ applauded Lucilla, clapping her hands. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams.
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