"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. “Not much. I wanted to have something to give up. Chuck had did himself in because Chuck was a flaming homosexual.
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