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Laughed at me, then. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. You are my prisoner, murderer. They stood for a moment in the passage and listened. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. Never in this world! Let the hotel people take care of him; it's their affair.
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