"How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. " "But that's the point—I don't know.
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