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" "Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard," answered Blueskin, sulkily. Pray, walk in. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city. Saint Giles's Round-house XIII. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold.
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