Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. ” He leaned back in his chair as though wearied. He wanted to become a millionaire. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.
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