Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. Get a license—just an idea of mine. She blushed prettily, and in a moment regained command of her tongue. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. He leaned forward to embrace her. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you.
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