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William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. Like most officers, he’d had it especially made, for a man who loved danger had need of a precision instrument of defence. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. She wedged the towel between her legs.
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