“We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. " "My strength fails me," gasped the fugitive. "One of us has got to die," he panted. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. I—well, I lost my temper.
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