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“Ah!” said Ramage, impressively. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. It is not a dissipated face. He was perhaps forty-five years of age.
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