"Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. Thus, McClintock carried to Copeley's press about half a million pounds of copra. ’ Then she whisked from the room, hearing Lucilla utter a delighted squeal as she closed the door behind her. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. .
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