"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. " "Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard.
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