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‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden.
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