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“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. "Your sympathy is being wasted. God! I have cheated myself into a belief that the boy perished! And now my worst fears are realized —he lives!" "As yet," returned Jonathan, with fearful emphasis. He recognized the face instantly. " "We'll see that, young hempseed," replied Sharples, shutting the hatch furiously in his face, and locking it.
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