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Stanley took the letter and stood with it in his hand thoughtfully for a time. And, setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat. “Perhaps for myself I do not mind, but this man is sure to find out some day, and he will not like having been deceived. And with his daughter?’ ‘He wrote to Jarvis from an inn in France, saying that he had married Mademoiselle Valade, and that his baby naturally belonged with her father. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. "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. There were two sisters, you know. They are long gone. ’ ‘Hadn’t the wit, you mean. I do not ask if you are entirely English, but if you say truly when you say you are at my service.
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