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Sanguine they were not. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. “Indeed, you could have no more faithful friend, you could find no one more anxious to serve you. But he tells them that I am a spy. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. " Sheppard said nothing, but a disdainful smile curled his lips. Wood," cried David, pouring out a glass of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, "that'll warm the cockles of your heart.
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