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I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. Jack had no sooner taken his place in the cart, than he was followed by the ordinary, who seated himself beside him, and, opening the book of prayer, began to read aloud. Are you satisfied?’ Grudgingly, Jack Kimble took back the coins. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. His statement was treated with derision.
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