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If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. ” “I’ll try not to see him again,” said Ann Veronica. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away.
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