“There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. Something in his tone pinched her heart. "Is my house to be made a receptacle for all your natural children, Sir? Answer me that. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. Passing thought.
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