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. It is with the building raised after this direful calamity that our history has to deal. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. Gerald had been confident that the boy would not dream of disobeying an order thrown at him by a major of militia, but he guessed Jack might be wondering if he was about to be haled off to prison. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy.
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