In a sense I don’t care. The signal of distress was evidently understood. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up.
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