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‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. It is necessary. All the village was assembled in the churchyard. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. His fingers closed upon her hand.
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