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The sandstorm had blanketed the world the night before. Sand hung still on the leaves of the palm trees; sand sat on a skim atop the water; sand pillowed against rocks. Grains swept the crevices of palm trees, shone like jewels in the sun.
The assassin, the mother, and the child fled into the desert.
Mr. Stutley Northup is not a magistrate. Why, he's not even a lawyer. But if people are free to come to him with their controversies, he is just as free to offer his opinion; and if they choose to act on it, well, that's their own lookout.
Mr. Stutley Northup is not a magistrate. Why, he's not even a lawyer.
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The assassin, the mother, and the child fled into the desert.
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Introduced by the author.
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I made the truth something those duty old men couldn’t ignore.