I don’t mind it. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. She needed to protect the baby. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet.
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