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” “You came to tell me this?” “I came for you,” he declared fiercely. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Imbecile. “Close your eyes. She crooked her finger. “Yes, I believe he is. This Joan would hold them for a little. “Stop!” He ran towards her. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother.
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