I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Do you think it’s nothing to me to have my daughter running about London looking for odd jobs and disgracing herself?” “Sha’n’t get odd jobs,” said Ann Veronica, wiping her eyes. I like such interviews. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. She approached this field with her usual liveliness of apprehension.
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