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A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. "Stop thief!" roared Jonathan, who perceived the fugitive hurrying along a street towards Hatton Garden. They were those of the Irish watchman. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. “You have changed somehow—and you certainly are less friendly. I meant to give him a drubbing.
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