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“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering. Wherever I saw him, I should pick him out as a man designed by nature to plan and accomplish the wonderful escapes he has effected.
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