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She was ushered into the back of the squad car. Wild. It’s these damned novels. She responded at once, rapping him on the knuckles with her fan. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. Here, turnkey. In a moment his grasp grew weaker. Mr. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his.
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