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No; she is fond of painting butterflies, you know.

So it seems, so it seems. (Striding away, and pacing round the Stage with his eyes fixed upon and, till he gets close behind them, while they move towards the front.)

But that kind is larger, and speckled like a wilding's egg, or a cowry, or the back of a trout, so pretty, and so minute.

My Love, you are too minute. You forget that Mr. Crafton is waiting for Sir Robert.

Bless me! is your face there? I thought you were on the other side of us.

I am just going. Sir.

O! Sir Robert, I beg that you will not go sooner thanMr. Crafton, I know, is apt to be impatient.

And you have a fellow-feeling for him.