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Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Nothing is of any concern of ours except the discovery of the man’s identity. "I am content," said Jack. Take it," he cried, lifting the babe from the bottom of the boat, and flinging it towards its unfortunate father.
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