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But when the letter was a crisp of blackened paper-ash she turned upon me, and once again the changeful eyes were cold and her words were stranger-formal. "What is it you would have me do, Captain Ireton?" "Nothing," I made haste to say; "nothing save to believe that I came here unwittingly and to let me go." "Where will you go? The town is alive with those who would who would "
My eye had caught certain written words which caused me to clutch at the sheets still burning on the fire. Too late! I grasped nothing save a little paper-ash. Then I turned to the pages still left in my hand, and read these words of my father's: 'These marginalia are written for the eyes of my dear son, into whose hands this copy of my book will come.
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