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But the stone was slippery; and the tide, which here began to feel the influence of the fall, was running with frightful velocity. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. " Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. ” Annabel’s hand stole into his.
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