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" Mrs. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. It wasn’t. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. And I’m afraid. She quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. She finished the olive and looked up.
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