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“Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache. It took my breath away. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. His face was very serious. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals.
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