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Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. "Ah! you are there, my dear young lady," said the widow, smiling faintly; "when I first waken, I'm always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum. Every time you mention the father, she turns into marble. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. .
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