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"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. "The door's open, and the room empty. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. ’ ‘You see, I am of them,’ she said seriously, ‘but not with them—yet. The gallows has groaned for him for years. Annabel turned on the electric light and made her way into the sitting-room. Perhaps I deceived you about it. But it sounds too real to be imagined. So far as I'm concerned, nothing could please me more. He was a little embarrassed.

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