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Thwart me, and I become your mortal enemy. ’ Kimble’s widening gaze told its own tale, but still he kept his fingers on the handle of the door. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. . It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. " "Make your choice," said Jonathan. "Yesh," replied Abraham.
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