" "Rot! Mac, what do you suppose the natives used to call her? The Dawn Pearl!" McClintock wagged his Scotch head negatively. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. Selfishness. There was—a service. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. He was an outside broker and the proprietor of a financial newspaper; he had come up very rapidly in the last few years, and Mr. Gianfrancesco became agitated. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture.
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