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The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. ‘Who the devil is Leonardo?’ demanded Roding impatiently, asking the question that had leapt into the major’s mind. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned.
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