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Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. Come and have lunch with me. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. "I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled.
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