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That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. “I wish you didn’t. The blood will rest on your head. . ’ ‘But you mind that I say I do not trust you. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. It feels like I’ve got a snake of mucus stuffing my entire throat, just one big solid rope. “Bring any new songs you may have. .
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