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But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. "Curse you! Where are the bailiffs? Rot you! have you lost your tongue? Devil seize you! you could bawl loud enough a moment ago!" "Silence, Blueskin!" interposed an authoritative voice, immediately behind the ruffian. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. Nor had Jack been idle all this time.
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