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And my father answered him: "The corpse of Ordez lay in the bare cut of the abandoned road, and beside it, bedded in the damp clay where he had knelt down to rifle the pockets of the murdered body, were the patch prints of Zindorf's knees!" VII. The Fortune Teller Sir Henry Marquis continued to read; he made no comment; his voice clear and even. It was a big sunny room.
My father went over and sat down at the table. He took a faded silk envelope out of his, coat, and laid it down before him. Then he answered Zindorf. "There will be no sale," he said. Mr. Lucian Morrow interrupted. "And why no sale, Sir?" "Because there is no slave to sell," replied my father. "This girl is not the daughter of the octoroon woman, Suzanne." Zindorf's big jaws tightened.
He had ridden ten miles through the hills on this April morning, at Zindorf's message sent the night before. The clay of the roads was still damp and plastic from the recent rain. There were flecks of mud on him and the splashing of the streams. He was a big, dominating man, in the hardened strength and experience of middle life. He had come, as he believed, upon some service of the state.
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