Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. “Election be hanged!” he exclaimed. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. "My horses, Charcam," he said, as a servant appeared. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked.
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