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"There be the right keys," nodding to the two on the wall, "and there be the wrong ones," nodding towards an old knife-tray, into which he had angrily thrown the rusty keys, upon entering his lodge last night, accompanied by the crowd. "They meant to lock me up all night in the cloisters, the wicked cannibals! I hope the dean'll expel 'em! I'll make my complaint to the head-master, I will!
"The Dean'll be dead before that time; and so shall I," said Mr. De Baron. "Poor little boy! You never saw him. They didn't bring him in when you were over at Manor Cross?" "No; I didn't see him." "They weren't very proud of showing him. He wasn't much to look at. Upon my soul I don't know whether he was legitimate or not, according to English fashions." Mr. De Baron stared.
'Didn't jes' like that white stockin', he said, as I came in. 'Wondered how he'd look without it. They all agreed this horse and the whistler were as much alike as two peas in appearance. Breakfast over Uncle Eb asked the Irishman to hitch him up. 'Come Bill, said he, 'le's take a ride. Dean'll be comm' 'long bym bye on his way t' town with that trotter o' his'n. 'Druther like to meet him.
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