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A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. He's worth a dozen of you. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. In the pause she realized the attention of the others converged upon her, and that the tears were brimming over her eyes. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Listen to me, Thames. I'm going to be frank; we must have a clear understanding. “We were afraid that you had deserted us for good, Mr. The aunt laughed. For Manning it would be a more temperate love altogether.
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