‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow.
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