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“Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. And so, the invasion really is to take place after all; and the Chevalier de Saint George is to land at the Tower with fifty thousand Frenchmen; and the Hanoverian usurper's to be beheaded; and Doctor Sacheverel's to be made a bishop, and we're all to be—eh?" "All in good time," returned Kneebone, putting his finger to his lips; "don't let your imagination run away with you, my charmer. You must—you shall be mine. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. “Of course!” he said. ‘That little kiss cost him his sanctuary, my girl, and don’t you forget it.
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