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"Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon. “I hope you have not come for that. ” “But your dinner!” she protested.
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