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It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. CHAPTER II. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “Do?” “Are you prepared to do things for us? Distribute bills? Write letters? Interrupt meetings? Canvass at elections? Face dangers?” “If I am satisfied—” “If we satisfy you?” “Then, if possible, I would like to go to prison. They've heard quite enough for my purpose," he muttered, as his orders were obeyed, and the domestics excluded. “Dyed!” “And your figure?” “One’s corsetière arranges that.
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