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Their conversation hung. But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter. London Bridge had suffered a degree less than most places. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned.
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