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He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. ” Sir John clutched at the table with both hands. He stood back, smiling with an air of proprietorship, and looking about him at the business-like equipment of the room. "You have lived over here?"—astonished. Ireton, you are in league with him.
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