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‘Do not move, messieurs, or I shall be compelled to blow off your head. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short.
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