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And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. ” “It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week—for drudgery. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly.
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