The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. “But, forgive me, you are tired. In another minute, the tramp of horses' feet told that the perpetrators of the outrage had effected their escape. " "Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard," answered Blueskin, sulkily.
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