“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. F. " Sailors, he thought; and most of them the dregs of the South Seas, casting their evil glances at this exquisite creature and trying to smirch with innuendo the crystal clearness of her mind. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. I’ve got imagination. I'll wait here.
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