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" "My God!" cried Trenchard, stunned by the intelligence, "I have killed her. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. That is very certain. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. " "Who are you!" demanded the fugitive, sternly. He sent me flowers. ‘Small wonder in a way that he found hisself consolation elsewhere. He's rewriting Poe and De Maupassant; and that stuff was good only when Poe and De Maupassant wrote it.
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