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The Journals of Barnabas Collins

Nathan Forbes — must I call him by that ill-bestowed rank?  He has established himself to be, at the very least, a sensible man.  Normally, men of the sea are quite mad, driven to no manner of delusions by the rum, unsavory urges, and highly-seasoned food that are the norm when traveling across Neptune’s churning pate.  Nonetheless, we discovered the Governess Victoria in the midst of that ridiculous reverend’s medieval trap, with Forbes the Eel proving himself to be — and mark these words, for their most rare of vintage — a voice of reason.  Secreted now in the new house, we hope she shall avoid detection.  After the travesty of the past day, it is odder still to round it out with heroic action, but we Collinses (well, some of us, at least) did not walk away from William and Mary as puppets of blind superstition.  Trask shall be…

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