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I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. “Dear John,” she whispered. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head.
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