“No,” she answered. "I knew him at once. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. Winifred pointed to the door. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. There it is—against you. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed.
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