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Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. That's well. Kentish family. " "You'd better send him," jeered the turnkey.
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