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Memories of the Kane Mansion.
A middle-aged man lay in the master bedroom bed, his face inexplicably flushed, looking gravely ill.
Next to the bed sat a young man, whose features somewhat resembled those of Butler Joyce.
“Cough, cough, I must look terrible, Joyce. You wouldn’t despise me, would you?”
The man on the sickbed still had the mood to joke, but the Joyce beside him wore a very sorrowful expression.
“Brandon…”
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