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You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well.
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