I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. “Looooo-ceeeeee!!” He yelled, sounding like Desi Arnaz. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. He was placed in a coach, handcuffed, and heavily fettered, and guarded by a vast posse of officers to Temple Bar, where a fresh relay of constables escorted him to Westminster.
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