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CHAPTER VIII. "A capital instrument for my purpose," thought Jack, shouldering it, "and worth all the trouble I have had in procuring it. “I don’t know. ‘What am I looking for?’ ‘A miniature. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. CHAPTER XXVII. He was looking pale and ill.
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