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Good lord, Henry. Youβre almost as strange a creature as me. Perhaps stranger, because you look so wholesome and brown and bonny, like a pretty ploughboy. Whereas nobody could ever mistake me for anything but what I am.β βAnd what are you?β βIβm a thief,β said Jem. βAnd a whore. A molly. A mary-anne. Thatβs what they used to call us back in London, us boys who dressed as girls and called one another sister.
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