"Very well, Mr. Kneebone," returned Shotbolt. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. He can't be far off. "Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction.
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