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A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Jeremiah Jackson, and Mr. ‘Imbecile. Pews had been brought in and set in two rows before the huge table, covered in white cloth, that formed the altar at the far end. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy.
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