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"And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?" remarked Hogarth. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. "What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. “If I do,” he said. "Perhaps. And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female. “No.
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