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“You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Went up to Somerset House to examine the will before he did it. Her eyes travelled about the room as if in appeal to the very chairs. Take my word for it, your troubles are over.
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