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I beg that you will consider me your friend. "So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. But oh, how weary I am! I know. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque. "You lie!" Head down, fists doubled, Spurlock rushed: only to be met with a kick which was intended for the groin but which struck the thigh instead. Terrific yells rent the air.
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