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“—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. ‘It is all the fault of that lantern. "Never—never!" The words were scarcely pronounced, when the door was violently thrown open, and two men appeared at it. "Enough," said the widow, gratefully. "Do you take me for a thiefcatcher, like Jonathan Wild, that you dare to affront me by such a proposal?" "No offence, Sir," rejoined the jailer, humbly. "You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. His sword then came in for his scrutiny: he felt at, and appeared satisfied with its edge. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn.
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