John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. “I am sure of it. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. But this is a great lark, Ann Veronica! This turns life into a glorious adventure!” “Ah!” she cried in triumph. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred.
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