“But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. My father thought the latter. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast.
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