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Автор: Mary Shelley

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Nothing in human shape could have destroyed the fair child. He
was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the
idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing
the devil; but it would have been in vain, for another flash
discovered him to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly
perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill that bounds
Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and
disappeared.

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