If Miss Charvill should take it into her head to dash off on some foolish errand, go with her by all means. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair.
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