He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. Here he was hotly pursued. The period of repression was over. I don’t think I shall ever care for this bonnet again. Keep your eye upon the lad. .
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