The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Even the chattering monkeys, parrots, and parrakeets departed the fruit groves for the smelly dark of the jungle. "Release your prisoner," continued Wood, "or the window is opened. I don’t know anyone. She is no longer mine; she is yours. She looked about, watching a massive green storm cloud building in the west.
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