The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. "I suppose he'll be on his feet any day now. Seeing from the threatening looks of his captors, that they were about to wreak their vengeance upon him, the miserable wretch besought mercy in abject terms, and charged his master with the most atrocious crimes. I do swear. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. " "Ah. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly.
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