"Facts convince the most incredulous," answered Jonathan, drily. "When I heard of your escape, I felt sure I should see you. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. The buboes broke and God took Lucia's mother. ‘Don’t dare address me by such a title. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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