It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. But we get over it. A white man takes his life in his hands. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Between herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God could give—love. "How long will he be laid up?" "Three or four weeks, if he doesn't peg out during the night. ” She wondered what to. We'll have some fun down there at my place, Spurlock; but we'll probably bore your wife to death.
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