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‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. Or, better still, put all my clothes in the trunk. It was 1582. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. "What is he gone there for?" "With a message to the turnkey to look after his prisoner," replied Wild, with a cunning smile. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. The others hurried to the window.
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