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"On my soul, yes," rejoined Jonathan. ” His lips tightened, and he frowned with solemn resolution. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Dump instantly complied, and as soon as Jack was removed from the sacred edifice, his person was searched from head to foot—but without success. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. .
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