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” He said. Remember, some day you and I are going to have that book. But days had now passed. Thames, look the door. I'll dispose of the brat. Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill.
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