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A Christmas Carol: Marley’s Ghost

219.744 - 248.016 Keith Morrison

The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait, made his eyes red, his thin lips blue, and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say with gladsome looks, My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me? No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle.

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