‘It is seldom enough I am visited by anyone at all, let alone a personable young redcoat. And son of a pig,’ she grunted, baring her teeth. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. We'll have some fun down there at my place, Spurlock; but we'll probably bore your wife to death. There was a certain amount of disputation, and meanwhile she went on at school. "A thousand dollars in British pounds!… A thousand dollars for four short stories!" The tan on Spurlock's face lightened.
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