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‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. ” He sighed. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. But, like all your overbearing sex, you must have your own way. He strangled the infant, which slipped out of his hands and screamed. “I am just back from Paris.
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