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Beiman

 Motilal Jain was now in his chamber, sitting on a revolving chair, reading a file. She was about fifty-five years old. But no more than forty pistols were seen due to adequate care for health. Even at this age her hair was black. The round face, the gold-framed glasses of plain glass over the eyes, the cigarette between the two lips, the glittering gold ring on the first two fingers of the right hand, all these made his personality more attractive.

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