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It was an open pocket-knife; on the buck-horn handle were rudely scratched the letters SJ. It was her brother's knife; there could not be a moment's question of it, for she had often both seen and used it. But what was it that sent a chill like the chill of death through every limb, and made her totter faintly against the bank?
There were scratched rudely on it the letters SJ. "Where, where did you get this?" he cried, turning first deadly pale, and then very red again. The young man looked at him in amazement. "Who, who are you?" stammered Jacob again. "Who am I?" said the other; "why, my name's John Walters. I am afraid you're not quite sober, my friend."
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