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... e was at least a ninety-five percent chance that this very sparrow was the unfortunate target.
She stared at him for a long second, then crouched down, crossing her arms. In a slightly teasing tone, she said, "So, Mr. Sparrow... what are you doing here this time?"
The sparrow, feathers ruffled like a half-plucked chicken, wobbled and tried to stand. He steadied himself with difficulty, his tiny legs trembling, before glaring up at her with pure, offended rage.
"Charp! Cha ...
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