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"That's not strange; for the murd'rer could 'a' slipped off his boots or shoes, and walked out puffickly quiet. I noticed, this mornin', and the other members of the jury can see for themselves, that the boards of the floor don't creak when you walk on 'em, nor the entry door neither when you open it. Didn't you never observe that succumstance?"
Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care, But, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd a sainted pray'r!
The sparrow, Venus' son; the nightingale That clepeth forth the fresh leaves new; The swallow, murd'rer of the bees small, That honey make of flowers fresh of hue; The wedded turtle, with his hearte true; The peacock, with his angels' feathers bright, The pheasant, scorner of the cock by night.
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