My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics. "I'm afraid, Jack, you'll come to the gallows," observed the smith; "buth if you do, I'll go to Tyburn to see you.
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