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" "Halloo, Nab!" vociferated Quilt. "Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. E. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. I want you to be my wife. Come. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. You must wait till supper's over. So this was what it was all about. .
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