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Lancelot knew that he had a right to read it. It was scrawled, mis-spelt but there were no tear-blots on the paper: 'Sir I am in prison and where are you? Cruel man! Where were you all those miserable weeks, while I was coming nearer and nearer to my shame? Murdering dumb beasts in foreign lands. You have murdered more than them. How I loved you once! How I hate you now! But I have my revenge.
It must be worse for her she has cried ever so over this letter see, it's all tear-blots." The troubles and disappointments of youth are bitter while they last, but they soon pass, and the sun shines again.
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