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As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. The advanced guard rode on to drive away any opposition, while the main body of the procession crossed the bridge, and slowly toiled up Holborn Hill. You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald.
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