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And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. Manning. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose.
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