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“The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered. "At a thought. Nobody could possibly find him now. "What did you ring for, Sir?" she asked, eyeing the group with astonishment. When the bell rang, she lagged behind as was her habit. "Your uncle, Sir Rowland?" "It is no idle boasting," replied the other. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. “She”, you say. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above.
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