“You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Without Jack, it was certain that she faced danger if she went outside Golden Square. “I have been very selfish,” she declared.
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