“In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. Beneath that tree let us lie. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her.
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