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Mrs. Copperhead came into the shop while they were choosing. Poor little woman! she who trembled so in her own house, how everybody bowed down before her at Messrs. Margrove and Snelcher's! It was all she could do to extricate herself from a crowd of anxious officials, all eager to supply her with everything that heart could desire, when she saw the little party. She came up to them, almost running in her eagerness, her small pale face flushed, and leaned on Anne Dorset's chair and whispered to her.

“You will not be angry, dear kind Anne. You are always so good to everybody. Oh, forgive me! forgive me!”

Ursula could not help hearing what she said.

“There is nothing to forgive you, Mrs. Copperhead.”

“Oh, dear Anne! But I am more than myself, you know! He does not mean it; he never was brought up to know better. He thinks that is how people behave—”

“Please don't say anything, dear Mrs. Copperhead.”

“Not if you will forgive—not if you will promise to forgive. Poor Clarence is heart-broken!” cried the poor woman. “He is so frightened for what you must think.”


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