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Anything. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. “Will they worry about you getting caught in a storm?” She asked him as she viewed black clouds floating in different directions. She wanted to think. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement.
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