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It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. Sheppard. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Just as they reached the end of the passage, they heard the voices of Jonathan and the Jew in Thames's late place of confinement. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. She rang again with the same result. It was a letter.
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