I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris. 4. . ’ I said. Only a book detective could dope this out. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. "I thought you were asleep. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles.
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