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In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. "What good would it do you to destroy me? For I have courage to kill myself. Love-making at first hand is dull enough. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. “You could have told me about it, Michelle. ’ A little sigh escaped her.
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