She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. He looked half at her and half at the sky. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere.
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