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Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel. " "Your prisoner!" echoed Jonathan, derisively. "I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker, smiling significantly. ” He looked at her very gravely. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin.
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