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In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. "I give you joy of the capture, Mr. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. The window was shortly after opened, and a rope ladder, with a lighted horn lantern attached to it, let down. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite.
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