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" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. " "Jacobite!" echoed Mrs. " "Conduct me to your dwelling, Sir, without further delay," said Trenchard, sternly,—"to the boy. " Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her. For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. “I’m not going to kill you, John.
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