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The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. E. "Yes; I know I look it," said O'Higgins, amiably.
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