Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. I just never had anything else fun to do. ‘I’m following a scent. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. "For ever!" said the thief-taker, preparing to follow.
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