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Place a pistol at my ear, and shoot me, if I've told you false. So, by way of gaining time, he resolved to question him further. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. It's a mighty quare 'un, though. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. —Strype's Stow.
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