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“It’s the stir of spring,” he said. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. After occupying himself thus for the best part of an hour, he thought Jack must have given him the slip. She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you.
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