You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’ ‘West Kent, yes. '" "Let me see," cried Jack, snatching the paper, and eagerly perusing the advertisement. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Here, turnkey. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her.
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