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Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. That's a queer yarn. She finished the olive and looked up. But me, I am going to England. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation.
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