“Dear me!” he said. I sang to him, and he was satisfied. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica.
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