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I do not admit the truth of a word which you have said. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. "Oh! we've lost no time, as you perceive," replied Jack. I’ve got imagination.
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