“You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. "And now, widow," continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon a bench, "I've a piece o' good news for you.
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