CHAPTER XXVII. It will do its best to overlook things—” “If we let it, poor dear. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. I don’t half disagree with you, Vee, really; only thing is, I don’t see how you’re going to pull it off. “Forgive you, indeed. ” He shook her hands off almost roughly. I said I’d make shirts.
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