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Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. —'How so?' says I. “You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone. Don't you see Mr. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. Peste, she had forgot the sword. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. There were perches inside where she could crouch and labyrinths underneath where she could hide.

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