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She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Spare me yet a little while, Father! not for my own sake, but for the sake of this poor babe. "Hell's curses!" roared Jonathan. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. “Election be hanged!” he exclaimed. "It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively.
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