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He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. ‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. ‘I don’t want him having an apoplexy in this house.
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