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Not a muscle moved in the faces around. "Know me," he stammered with wet lips. "Vat, funf year berfegtly acquaint grockery Verfluchte sponsher. Ich? Spy. Vat for spy? Vordamte English pedlars!" The door slammed. "Is that so?" asked a New England voice. "Why don't you let daylight into him?" "Oh, we can't do that here," murmured one of the players. "Your deal, Trench, let us get on."
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