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Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. "Ay, what's the matter, boy!" reiterated Jackson sternly. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. ” He would say every time she wore it.
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