"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. They’ll face facts as facts, and understand. ‘But for my dowry, what else? One cannot expect that an Englishman will marry any jeune demoiselle without a dowry.
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