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The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. It stunned her. " "Perhaps, I wasn't," returned Thames, gloomily, as the remembrance of Jonathan Wild's foul insinuation crossed him. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. He had already spoken his mind on the folly of allowing a clearly dangerous female to escape a second time. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon.
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