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There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved. Lucy knocked again. "I was just thinking of you Jack. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. ‘Do not speak of him.
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