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Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. McClintock would be on hand to tell her how and where to obtain this freedom. “Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. ‘Parbleu, you waste time. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. He had been thrilled at her attitude about the subject, which was simply not to turn others into vampires.
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