" "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. I got a rusty bolt cutter. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. " "By no means," rejoined Wood, hastily. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband.
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