\" He leaned at a steeper pitch. His eyes closed. A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. "May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all. ‘You wish to die?’ ‘Not in the least. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said.
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