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"Anywhere," he said in answer to the manager's query. Or perhaps my father once. He is at present with Mr. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. I have given up painting. The doctor frowned.
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