\" She said, bashful. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR. " "Two can play at that game, my blood," replied Sheppard, rising, and putting himself into a posture of defence. " "But, Lord, man!—don't you ever get lonesome?" "Don't you?" "I'm too busy. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel.
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