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“No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. "Well, well, we'll say no more about it," replied Wood; "and, by way of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong waters for consolation, Joan. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—I have not. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. I'm no great judge of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off paste upon me. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation.
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