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“No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. By a sort of instinct. “She’s been up to no good, Sheila. Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side. What news. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior.
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