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A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. They are long gone. His face clouded with anger. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Ennison’s manner was certainly not one of a willing host. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look.
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