Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair. Sheppard looked round, and exchanged kindly glances with several of those who addressed him. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. “Annabel!” she exclaimed. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked.
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