“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. “My parents left for Vail on a plane this morning. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE.
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