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But this was long ago. She was carefree. Manning?” she asked. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. I don’t classify. But I’m generously ignorant of gems. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. ‘How is this? Proo-den-ss.
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