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The chair was torture. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to God to defend her. Upon this, Jack earnestly and eloquently addressed himself to the bench, and besought that a petition which he had prepared to be laid before the King might be read. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying.
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