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Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. He found himself thinking up all the psychology which he had ever read. Why don’t you go in? Charvill is there. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. "It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip," laughed Ben: "the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames.
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