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Miss Jane Marple was sitting by her window.
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Last night I dreamt I went to Manderly again.
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I was leaning against a bar in a speak-easy on Fifty-second Street, waiting for Nora
to finish her Christmas shopping, when a girl got up from the table where she had
been sitting with three other people and came over to me.
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It was not surprising that Sylvia Raffray, on that Saturday in September, had
occasion for discourse with various men, none of them utterly ordinary, and with one remarkable
young woman; it was not surprising that all this happened without any special effort
on Sylvia's part, for she was rich, personable to an extreme, an orphan, and six months
short of twenty-one years.
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It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid-October, with the sun not shining
and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills.
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Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not
infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table.
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Samuel Spade's jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible
v of his mouth.
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