“Is it your maid?” he asked. “Be careful,” Lucy cautioned Michelle as she sidestepped a two by four studded with upturned nails. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously.
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