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"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. . "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. According to what I’ve heard, you oughtn’t to be here. " "Didn't some of them … try to touch you?" "Not the true unfortunates.
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