"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. "But bring your glim this way. The next door neighbor's dog, chained outside, let out a single bark, but was silent as soon as she turned in that direction, instinctively afraid.
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