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His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. You were never married at all. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. . We'll get those books into your room first.
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