“The Widgetts,” she said. Lucy snatched it up and put it in her pack. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. " "Most likely," observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; "the ghost of some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt. It was Blueskin. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. .
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