She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. Afterwards we started for déjeuner in a motor. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. “Can you not understand? It is of no use your taking my identity and all the burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be recognized the moment I show my face in London. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. —'How so?' says I.
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