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"Why no, Mr. Maurice, I can't say as I did." "I know what you mean, now, Miss Pat," she declared loftily. "I've read it in Stevenson's verses, about 'those who … sow gladness in the peopled lands,' Isn't that it, Bruce? I didn't quite understand the way Patricia put it, but I think it's perfectly lovely, really I do." "That reminds me," broke out Griffin. "There's a prize for the mud larks, too. I've forgotten what it is, but it'll be posted in the morning. There's your chance, young 'un. You're eligible for it.".
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"Nor," said he, fixing his eyes on the woman, "did you confess that you opened the window of Mr. Alymer's room, and aided Dr. Etwald to carry away the dead body?" "The law will do that." Patricia held out her hand across the cloth. "I can't kiss you, but here's the substitute. You're a duck, Bruce Haydon. Where is the studio?" Patricia smiled and opened her lips, but the words died away, as Bruce, now with a gayety that bespoke a different sort of announcement, mounted the model stand in the middle of the room, and rapped loudly for attention. Miss Jinny had vainly tried to grab his sleeve as he slipped past her and now stood with an expression of grim martyrdom glaring at Mr. Spicer, who was smiling at her openly and, Patricia thought, heartlessly..
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