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"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever. Your mother arrived, and she knew me for what I was, she whispered to me curses against werewolves and vampires when I was alone in a room with her. And look, again, at the women one finds letting lodgings. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.
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