“Sure, I guess so. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves.
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