His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. She too had seen. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. .
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