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Wood. E. ’ ‘Yes, but I’m afraid I am far too interested to stop mixing myself in your affairs,’ Gerald said ruefully. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. "I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me," cried Jack.
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