She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. I've sent for the priest. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection.
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