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Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. "Your voice seems familiar to me—and—but I'm getting a little deaf—and my eyes don't serve me quite so well as they used to do, especially by this light.
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