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“Who’s dead? Winterbourne?”

(Some apprehension perhaps in the attendant Sam Browne – he would have to propose, of course, and might be accepted.)

“They’ve killed him, those vile, filthy foreigners. My baby son.”

Sam Browne, still mystified, read the telegram. He then stood to attention, saluted (although not wearing a cap), and said solemnly:

“A clean sportin’ death, an Englishman’s death.”
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