"What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. “I think we’ve exhausted this discussion,” she said. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper.
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