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"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. Darting forward at this sound, Jack threw open the door, and beheld Quilt kneeling over Thames, who'se hands and feet were bound with cords, and about to plunge his sword into his breast. That was something in his favour. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs.
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