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” “Cabmen are so trying,” Mrs. You sent back my Christmas checks. “I must read him when I come out. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. I wanted to speak to you first. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. "No; it's only a fresh gale," Ben returned: "hark! now it comes. If any of you—or all of you feel the same in six months’ time from to-day, will you come, if you care to, and see me then?” There was a brief silence.
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