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The Times slipped from his fingers. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. “All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now. “Are you going on again this winter with that scientific work of yours? It’s an instance of heredity, I suppose. “Does he live here?” he asked her presently. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall.
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