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She had spent the afternoon in writing the fifth act of a tragedy on Belisarius; and it was more than a fortnight since Mr. Weston, the young vicar of Dunscale, had been to call. Her cheeks were sallow; her dark eyes burnt behind their thick lashes. "Suppose he's done it?" she said gloomily. Mrs. Penfold gave a little shriek. "Done what? What do you mean?" "He's proposed and she's said 'No."
Each time, when he reappeared, she was standing by the steaming horse, busy with her tale. 'An' on t' road hame we passed t' three on' em in Curbison's trap, with Smethwick leein' in t' bottom, singin' maudlin' songs. They were passin' Dunscale village, an't' folks coom runnin' oot o' houses t' see 'em go past
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