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A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. "What are you waiting for?" asked Jack, impatiently. "It is your son. You shall have room to develop, you shall live as you will, where you will, only give me the right to protect you, to free you from all these petty material cares. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. Your son was seen by the carpenter's wife in company with the robbers.
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