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Montague Hill. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. That’s why I wanted your weapons. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. Opening the door he then stepped into a dark narrow passage leading, as he was well aware, to the chapel. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked.
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