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Then we find out. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. " "Six weeks have elapsed since that fatal night," replied Jack. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Consternation gripped him. “Stop! Don’t put your face there. ’ For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. When he returned, it was always the same.
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