Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. That's the sort of fool your nephew is!" "Not even a good time!" said the aunt, whimsically, as she stuffed the bills into her reticule. "No; we never had one; at least, I never saw it. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. The chamber, into which he stole, like all carpenters' workshops, was crowded with the implements and materials of that ancient and honourable art.
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