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He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. "'This is the way in which I will serve all who attempt to apprehend me. Mr. "Devilish strange!" thought he, chuckling to himself; "queer business! Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat stand the brunt for his own—capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. Submission to the inevitable carried her through the circumstances of her appearance before the magistrate. Well, I don’t think that’s fair. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven.

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