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The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. The crowner's 'quest sat on her yesterday—and if she hadn't been proved out of her mind, she would have been buried at four lane-ends. "We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. She would write to Gerald. We shall both, I hope, live to enjoy our shares—long after Thames Darrell is forgotten—ha! ha! A third of your estate I accept. I'll knock off at tea. That won’t involve references, as a bank account would—and all that sort of thing. Promise me one thing before I leave you. Over here a man quickly loses faith, and I find myself back on solid ground once more.
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