"Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. Rhea went down, screeching and clawing at the air for the sword, which clanked heavily on the ground. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. There must be something we can do. The knife is at my breast. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked.
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