“You too sing?” he asked. "They'll escape. Sir John hesitated, and then continued. \" He rose and departed. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. McClintock does it; and he knows why. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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