"Why, hello, Ah Cum! What's the trouble?" Ah Cum took his hands from his sleeves. Ramage—about the forty pounds. " "Don't scold him, father," interposed Thames; "he's been frightened enough already. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed.
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