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Pett backed convulsively into the padded recesses of her chair, feeling as if somebody had thrown a brick at her. "Good afternoon," she said faintly. "Gladda meecher, siz Pett. Mr. Sturge semme up. Said y'ad job f'r me. Came here squick scould." "I beg your pardon?" "Squick scould. Got slow taxi." "Oh, yes."
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