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 like;—when we cannot get at the very thing we wish,—never to take up with the next best in degree to it;—no; that's pitiful beyond description;—it is no more than a week from this very day, in which I am now writing this book for the edification of the world,—which is March 9, 1759,—that my dear, dear Jenny observing I look'd a little grave, as she stood cheapening a silk of five-and-twenty shillings a yard,—told the mercer, she was sorry she had given him so much trouble;—and immediately went and bought herself a yard-wide stuff of ten-pence a yard.—'Tis the duplication of one and the same greatness of soul; only what lessen'd the honour of it somewhat, in my mother's case, was, that she could not heroine it into so violent and hazardous an extream, as one in her situation might have wish'd, because the