“I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. Wood. Guns were impossible. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. Maggot. Capes most trying. “I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. Fortunately, ever since Wild's late murderous attack, the household has all been well armed.
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