" "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. “I imagine,” Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. ‘You said it. They sold him the whisky. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. Lord, I am sixty.
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