She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. "Here's a door," remarked Ireton, when he got to that nearest the leads, "which I could have sworn would have resisted anything. —What do you know of Thames?— Where is he?" "Don't agitate yourself, dearest girl," rejoined the woollen-draper; "or I shall never be able to commence my relation. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage.
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