"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. Mischief bubbled up in her. She was in one of her old walking-dresses, her hair was done in an unfamiliar manner, she wore a wedding-ring, and she looked as if she had been crying. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention. Dunster shall fetch you a cab.
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