He slapped his knee. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. ‘You make a game with me, I think. He filled his pipe slowly. Wood, I forget nothing. “DON’T!” she said, and wrenched her wrist from his retaining hand. “Dear husband,” she murmured. CHAPTER XIX. “Don’t think so,” Drummond answered.
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