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Annabel, I cannot believe it. ‘Yes, very rude,’ agreed the major. She shuddered with relief as it seemed that Mike and Shari were still out and about. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Hope reared. Vaguely she heard the distinctive sound of male voices as she saw Gosse dive towards the fateful pew.
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