‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. Those lives removed,—and Sir Rowland is completely in his power, the estates would be yours—HIS! if he were your husband. That was one of the compensations for having consigned himself to this part of the world. Insulting cries became frequent and various, but for the most part she could not understand what was said. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse.
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