—Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. You MUST not, you SHALL not go. Between her and the fair, far prospect of freedom and self-development manoeuvred Mr. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever.
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