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" Captivity had, indeed, produced a striking alteration in Thames. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Even if he were an old friend, you couldn't afford to do it. After all, they’re history in the making. . Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again.
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