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“Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. My wife—killed me. And then, there would be the question of money. The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. She was finally dead, going to Hell. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way.

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