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The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence.
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