"You are out betimes this morning, Mr. " "I'll excuse it nevertheless," returned the little damsel, affectionately extending her hand to him. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. There is no further hope. Mr. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand.
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