"Oh! that was all, was it?" said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. But the vicomte has said that his sister may remain, but that the daughter must go. She has been a dear. Captain Roding either did not know, or did not remember that she had it.
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