She was twenty-three years of age, and it will be readily supposed had been sought in marriage by more than one ardent swain. But she had kept her heart whole: nothing in breeches and stockings and long cut-away coat and salutations adopted from the most approved Parisian styles had touched the passions of Lucy Acton. She was like Emma as painted by Miss Austen: she loved her home, she adored her father, she was perfectly well satisfied with her present state of being, she could not conceive anything in a man that was worth marrying for, and being well, she meant to leave well alone.
Dear machine number, "Please sir, don't whip her," he said, pleadingly. "I'll own up. It was me that put the sulphur in the stove."
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Dear machine number "Harry O'Dule," she gasped, as he swung the gate wide, "is it re'lly you?".
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