I shan't let you off a farthing. —Strype's Stow. \" He commented heartily, wiping the sweat from his brow with his hand. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself.
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