“I don’t see that his being a good sort matters. He saluted awkwardly. His literary instincts began to stir. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. " "Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. It’s exactly how it went down with me and Josh Durbin. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring.
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