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With the last glimmer of decency he had sent the daughter to his sister. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. Peste, she had forgot the sword. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. "I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. And, mind, it's for his sister, Lady Trafford.
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