” “You do not deny that you are my wife,” he asked hoarsely. Mr. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. But he would make it a point not to speak again to the girl. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded.
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