"Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. They shouted to her from the wings to come off. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. If we were set upon I could not defend you.
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