But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. "Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son. If I don't, you shall clap me in the Condemned Hold in his stead.
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