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Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. Destruction everywhere marked its course. "Miss Thornhill's a charming girl. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. .
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