"He is dying?" whispered Ruth. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. "If you are human," rejoined Trenchard, with stern emphasis, "I insist upon knowing whence you derived your information?" "I might refuse to answer the question, Sir Rowland. ” He said.
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