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And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. I am sorry to seem to hurt you, but all I say is for your good. ” She stopped. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. He said. I shall quit it and go abroad.
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