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I am the cause of his ill-usage. “Can you not understand? It is of no use your taking my identity and all the burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be recognized the moment I show my face in London. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. Mrs. What is it? Good God!” An unhappy little smile parted her lips. "I'm afraid I must decline to tell you. Yet you knew that I was not dead. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her.
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