A small voice greeted her, hissing. At last, she breathed. “You’re. “Showtime!” Martin cried. The person caught hold of his arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. “You shall go,” he declared. —Strype's Stow.
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