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‘I fear you mistake, Emile. The musician. What's this?" he added, stooping to pick up a piece of paper lying at his feet—it was Jonathan's memorandum. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. He was tall, slender, and suave.
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