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Twenty-one, twenty-two. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. What passed between them I cannot think—I dare not. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. “It’s a nice holiday. Mother and Son. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. ’ ‘Quite right, Gerald,’ approved Lucilla.
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