"Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. "What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. It was locked. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws.
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