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He lives on forty-centime the day; treasures mean nothing to him; his cry, his eternal cry, is always of the People. He will probably tear it up. The brig will never come again. So best. Death will come soon. And I shall die unknown, unloved, forgotten. Bonne nuit!" Mr. Donovan alone remained in normal state of mind. 'Twas all faradiddle, this talk of finding treasures.
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