"You've got him?" demanded Ireton. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. "More than you'll pay for it, friend," snuffled the Jew. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips.
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