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"It doesn't seem to come right," said Patricia, rumpling her hair with the back of one soiled hand and staring ruefully at the lumpy, meaningless group of two stiff figures in modeling-wax that stood stolidly on a thick little board on top of the piano stool. What his real name was nobody knew, but he said that he was called Battersea, after the parish in which he had been reared as a foundling. "You sent for them?".
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"After you left me, sir," he said in a weak voice, "I remained seated in my chair beside the bedside of my poor young master. If you remember there was only one candle in the room, which was placed on the table, some little distance away. I examined the window and found it closed." "Aha, missy," said she, in deep, guttural tones, "you tink ob dat yaller-ha'r'd man!" "Right-o, Miss Judith," laughed Patricia, flinging an arm about the young sage. "My word, but you're a crafty young one! I'd have raved about it till even Michael Angelo or Raphael couldn't have satisfied the expectations of the beholder. How do you come by so much wisdom, Miss Minerva?" The leader raised a grisly hand and swept the assembly with her cavernous eye sockets..
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