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Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. “Poor little Miniver! What can she be but what she is?. That blow made me a thief. “Ye Gods!” she said at last. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have.
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