"I am twenty," said the girl. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Treat me as an elder brother, if you like. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table.
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