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The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. I’ll have to wait here, of course, which means you, Hilary—’ ‘Will have to do tomorrow’s patrol. He gave an order, the proa was floated and the sail run up. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. I only know that it is right to do what I do. They left the castle that day for another, packing with them the leftovers of the troupe that followed them from place to place, never asking about the occasional disappearance of one of its unlucky members.
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