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CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. Love anywhere. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. He was in a curious state of desperation. He wisely refrained from questioning the manager of the Victoria. Ten days should see you on your feet. “I have nothing to say to you. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture.
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