So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. The cause of this uproar was soon manifest. The major himself told me that this secret passage started upstairs.
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