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"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. “You will go and see her,” he begged. She was beautiful once, Lucia.
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