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“I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided.
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