"I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!" cried Winifred, with difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; "you've acted unfairly. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered. "God in Heaven bless you, unhappy boy!" cried. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried.
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