Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. A thin line of red appeared in the white neck. Drummond patted him on the shoulder. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. "Farewell!" cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot.
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