The Tigress went prowling for nut, too. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. ‘But you do not understand, mon ami. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. “For me there is no second turn.
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