“Ugh!” she said. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage. Covering his face with a crape mask, and taking the candle from his associate, Jack entered the room; and, pistol in hand, stepped up to the bed, and approached the light to the eyes of the sleepers. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else.
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