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\" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. I hate what I am. One, by perseverance and industry shall obtain fortune, credit, and the highest honours; while the other by an opposite course, and dissolute habits, shall eventually arrive at Tyburn. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her.
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