‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs Sindlesham roguishly. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. A fortnight passed, then a month. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. "A capital instrument for my purpose," thought Jack, shouldering it, "and worth all the trouble I have had in procuring it. good, miss. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. ‘Something in that, missie.
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