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He was bringing the sing-song girl to the hotel! The strange cortège presently vanished below the window-sill. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. okay. For you say that you swim. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. Then suddenly he seized a new preparation bottle that stood upon his table and contained the better part of a week’s work—a displayed dissection of a snail, beautifully done—and hurled it across the room, to smash resoundingly upon the cemented floor under the bookcase; then, without either haste or pause, he swept his arm along a shelf of re-agents and sent them to mingle with the debris on the floor. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. ” He closed the door partially behind himself. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable.
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This video was uploaded to mine-tec.com on 12-07-2024 22:18:53
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