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Courtlaw rose to his feet. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. For this he was prepared; but he was not prepared for the almost insurmountable obstacles which it presented. Give him this letter, child, and bid him take it to the Lodge at Newgate without loss of time. "Fold it … under the pillow. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves.
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