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“Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. Certainly he could not move now other than to announce the fact that he had found his man. Brendon. She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. This time they would call it murder. Jack! Mon dieu, but he was unarmed. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated.
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