" "Mother be——!" returned Jack. To return. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. That's the job. All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later.
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