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" "Irons—heavy irons—night and day. It was a habit she had taken from Remenham House, but could not wear because of the colour which must draw attention. On examination it proved to be a flat bar of iron, nearly a yard in length, and more than an inch square. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. "I give you all of my genius, and you say—'Get out!' I am some kind of a dog. The joke of it is that he’s married to her now, and cuts me dead. All the same, I don’t admit it.
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