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He drove her to the Beck house, pulling up behind Cathy's red Nissan. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. It was Blueskin. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. I've already told you I'm about to take a long journey, and it's more than probable I shall never return. “You must tell me the truth, please. But I know very well that that word will never be spoken.
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