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Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. "I cannot—will not suffer you to remain here. Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. ” “For the others,” Annabel said tearfully, “that is well enough.
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