She had not thought anything could equal her despair at that moment. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. "I am one. “Do you want some of mine?” “Yes. " "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. .
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